


Making Lemonade: Or, Bruce Wayne’s Guide To Un-Fucking Up

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Clark is a good guy, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Heartbeats, Heavy Angst, Honesty, Hurt/Comfort, Important and Clarifying discussions are had, M/M, Male Slash, Male-Female Friendship, Mental Health Issues, Minor Injuries, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, TW: Mental Health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-03-30 03:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19033426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: "Bruce knows eight languages fluently, and has a working understanding of even more, but when it came time to speak, the words left him. As usual."Set post-Justice League. Bruce and Clark's professional relationship has improveddrasticallysince Steppenwolf, and Clark's (miraculous) return from the grave. Their personal relationship, however? Not so much. All the heroes involved with the league are busy trying to keep this glorious, chaotic, and new organization afloat— Bruce included. Amidst this, Bruce needs to find the time to resolve things definitively, once-and-for-all, with Clark. Which means Bruce has totalkto him... What could go wrong?





	1. Rule I: Never Expect Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce reflects on recent events, and the conundrum presented by one Clark Kent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Thoroughly wash the lemons with soap and warm water, especially if you are mashing them whole with the skin"  
> — _Homemade Lemonade_ , Step One.

It’s been a month and a half since Superman’s return, and a month since Steppenwolf. By now, some of the more… _dramatic_ media coverage has calmed, though there’s still at least one or two opinion pieces published a week in main-stream journals or newspapers about the nature of life, death, and what this means for the future. As far as Bruce is concerned, it’s all new-aged bullshit. But, something he _does_ pay more attention to is the equally bombastic (if much less close to uncomfortably-devotional) coverage of the newly-formed Justice League. 

So far, opinions vary. In the U.S., it’s about a 50-50 split. Abroad, it differs. As of late, no one has spoken out definitively; it almost feels like the world might, possibly, be giving them a chance to prove themselves. It feels like a fragile, liminal thing, and makes Bruce nervous. In his experience, _chances_ , if given at all, are hard to live up to. And there is something about this situation that feels… almost too easy, despite what Diana, and Barry, and Victor all say; Arthur has yet to comment, and if he has an opinion, Bruce doesn’t care too much what it is anyway. Bruce has been doing this a _long_ time, and if there’s one thing he trusts about himself (like there’s anything else, nowadays), it is his instincts. He has managed to survive more than twenty years in this industry, despite others’ (and even his own, on rare occasions) efforts. And Bruce knows, intimately, how rare such longevity is. He only has to look at _the case_ to be reminded. 

On occasion, Bruce likes to play a game with himself called the _what-if analysis_. It goes something like this: Bruce maps out every terrible mistake he’s ever made and analyzes what he did wrong, why it was wrong, how that makes him unworthy to wear the cowl, and then he thinks (fantasizes) about what could have happened. That is, if he weren’t so completely fucked up; yes, he has his moments of self-awareness— it makes his what-if analyses hurt that much worse. It’s something that passes the time _real_ well when he can’t sleep because of the nightmares. Or the flashbacks. 

This newest round of the game isn’t any different, because he’s been thinking about second chances _a lot_ , recently. So Bruce asks himself what-if questions about Superman. What if he had listened when Clark explained that Lex Luthor is a cold, manipulative bastard, and oh, _by the way_ , he’s kidnapped my mother, Martha. What if Bruce hadn’t been a complete and utter _dick_ , and had tried to dig deeper into Superman’s identity? What if he’d then discovered that Superman was really Clark Kent, and that he’d been raised on a diet of Kansas corn, beef, sunshine, and good old-fashioned midwestern morals? What if Bruce had actually tried to control himself and hadn’t catastrophized over Superman’s very existence? What if he’d acted like the _goddamned detective_ he’s supposed to be, and uncovered Luthor’s plot _before_ anyone died? What if Superman— Kal El, Clark Kent— hadn’t died, and then been _raised from the grave_. What if Kal had ended up killing Bruce, that day in Metropolis? 

Sometimes— okay, frequently— Bruce thinks about what would have happened if he hadn’t been so lucky. Especially now, after the formation of the league. After the universe decided, _okay, let’s actually let Batman get it right, for once_. Still, Bruce doesn’t think he can be called lucky— outliving a son, pushing away another, destroying his family’s centuries’ old fortress, nearly-murdering a man, none of these things scream _lucky_ to him, oddly enough. Bruce revises the thought. That last one… that _had_ been extraordinarily lucky. He’s grateful to have been proven _so wrong_ about Superman, to have been able to bring the man back. He’s grateful to have the chance to maybe, someday, make it up to him. _But then again, Bruce never really has gotten **second** chances_. The thought makes him smile in bitter amusement. 

Apparently, he’s _old_ now, and age has made him into a sentimental motherfucker. And that’s another what-if he runs through sometimes, when he’s feeling especially self-pitying. Or when his very bones ache. Or when he can’t sleep. Or when even Alfred’s had enough of him. 

Bruce _never_ thought he’d live long enough to become old. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

Since Steppenwolf, the league has been spending more and more time in the cave. It’s probably (definitely) because of the fact that they don’t have a base of operations. Yet. After all, Bruce knows that he can be (often is) unpleasant to be around. Both because of his _issues_ and because he’s just got that kind of a personality. Despite knowing this, Bruce does enjoy their company. A little. He won’t ever tell Alfred that, though. Bruce suspects that the man already knows this, anyway; Alfred has always been good at reading Bruce. It’s probably why he’s stayed so long, despite Bruce being… well, _himself_. 

Currently, Victor and Barry are laughing about something over sandwiches that Alfred brought down for the entire league. Bruce’s chest tightens at the scene, and, forcibly, he turns away. He’s got other things to worry about. Like staying ahead of the global media machine so the league has a fighting chance at _survival_ , like figuring out a way to fund the league discreetly (no one else even comes close to having enough money to, not even Diana, who has been around for _a long time_ ), like figuring out a way to talk to Clark, now that their relationship has stabilized. 

Bruce recalls, with a prickling embarrassment that makes him want to sink into the rocky floor of the cave, his words: ‘I don’t… _not_ like you.’ _Jesus, first he tries to **kill** the man, and then he acts like an awkward teenager with their first crush. Hell_. Bruce just needs to be able to talk to Superman, work smoothly with him, and hopefully not get anyone else killed in the process. Is that too much to want? _Yes, for **you** it is_, says the grim voice in Bruce’s head, the one that he tries to ignore. 

Barry laughs again, loudly, and Bruce ignores his sudden desire to get up and walk away. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

Another few weeks have passed, blurring together under the familiar weights of tiredness, paperwork, bruising, patrol, and league business. Bruce sits in the living room, with Diana perched on the chair across from him. They’re having their semi-regular (sometimes scheduled) afternoon tea, with sandwiches. Bruce tries not to eat his too quickly (he’d forgotten to eat lunch earlier). Diana takes a delicate sip of her tea and then sets it down on the saucer with a soft clink. She sits back, and gives Bruce an all-too-familiar assessing look. No one’s ever made Bruce feel this easily pried-apart. Except for Selina, once, and Talia, after. But he doesn’t think about _Diana_ like that. She’s just a good friend, and _that_ is something Bruce hasn’t had in a long time. 

“So,” she says, breaking their comfortable silence, “how have you been, Bruce? Busy?” 

Bruce smiles, though it is more out of a sense of amusement over how little the word ‘busy’ covers; Diana is being kind. “Yes, I have been. I’m drafting a constitution and by-laws for the league, as well as working on Wayne Enterprises stuff. How about you?” he asks, diverting attention back to her. 

Diana narrows her eyes for a moment, to let Bruce know he’s been caught out, and says pleasantly, “A bit bored, to be honest. I… am _happy_ that things have gone well, truly. But I am not necessarily used to this sort of inactivity... We missed you at the Kent farm, for the team dinner last week.” 

Bruce stiffens, and blinks. _Ah. Here it is. Diana’s keen sense for his bullshit is in top form today, apparently_. “I…” he goes to say. But Bruce has nothing. She’s right, there was no _reason_ for him to not come to the team dinner, no matter how busy he is. Diana is also right about it being quieter since Superman’s return, and the league’s formation; Bruce has noticed it too. 

Diana leans forward slightly, eyes kind, face calm, and gently grabs one of Bruce’s hands. She grasps it in a comforting way, and gives a little squeeze, before letting go. “Have you talked to him yet, Bruce?” she asks. Bruce looks away for a moment, frowning. He sighs. Opens his mouth. Shuts it. Once again, Diana has stripped him of his metaphorical armor. He bristles. But, Bruce reminds himself, she’s trying to help, she’s a friend. It’s not her he’s angry at. It’s himself. 

Since Clark Kent returned from the dead, Bruce has been trying to find the words to apologize. Hell, even _before_ he returned, Bruce had been trying to find a way to apologize, to make clear the level of sorrow and regret he’s felt about his role in the other man’s death. Back when reviving Superman had been no more than a pipe dream, seemed impossible, Bruce had written soliloquies in his head, of what he would say to the man, if he’d had the chance. Bruce had replayed their fight, and made mental notes on everything he had to apologize for (and there were many things). 

Bruce knows eight languages fluently, and has a working understanding of even more, but when it came time to speak, the words left him. As usual. So instead, Bruce had _acted_. He watched out for Martha Kent. He maintained a careful eye on Superman’s monument. He safeguarded information about both Clark Kent and Kal El from falling into the hands of the government, or other institutions that wouldn’t have Superman’s privacy, or the well-being of his legacy, in mind. He bought a bank, saved the farm. Bruce _had_ tried to apologize, and his efforts hadn’t gone completely unnoticed. Clark tolerated him now, was even polite to him during league meetings, or whenever they were brought together. But no matter how he tried, Bruce still found himself saying things like, ‘I don’t… _not_ like you.’ He winces. “No, Diana. I haven’t talked to him. I… I have _no idea_ what to say. You know me— _words_ are not my strong suit.” 

Diana, once again, looks unimpressed. She purses her lips for a moment, and then a pensive expression crosses her face. Finally, she sighs, and fixes him with another no-nonsense look. “Yes, Bruce, I am aware. However, I think you _both_ need to talk to one another, to finally put this… issue between you to rest. And I did not say that you needed to go into the conversation with a speech written out, just that _something_ needs to be said. And you are our field strategist, are you not? I am sure _Batman_ can come up with something to say to Superman, in the moment.” 

Bruce opens his mouth, closes it, and frowns. _Well, he hadn’t thought of that before_. Diana stands, and grabs her dishes. “Thank you for another lovely afternoon, Bruce. I will see you at the next meeting,” she says. 

Absently, Bruce stares after her. He manages to call out, before she disappears completely, “Goodbye, Diana.” 

She laughs, and then calls over her shoulder, “Goodbye, Bruce. Talk to him.” Bruce stares at the doorway, and sighs. He wishes, not for the first time, that things were _simpler_. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

It’s (technically) his Alfred-enforced (and now also _Diana-enforced_ ) night off, but Bruce can’t sleep. It is late— probably one in the morning— and officially, Bruce has two days until the next league meeting, which is his self-imposed (really Diana-suggested) deadline for talking to Clark. He can’t sleep because he’s been thinking about what he’s going to say (ignoring all of Diana’s advice). He can’t sleep because his mind won’t shut up and let him, he’s got too many plans, strategies, worries, and thoughts whirring around in his head. He can’t sleep because his back is aching, and his joints are throbbing. Bruce rolls out of bed with a scowl, throws on the rattiest sweatpants Alfred will let him keep, and a t-shirt too. He decides to go down to the cave and work. Hopefully that will tire him out enough so he can at least get a few hours of less-than-satisfactory sleep. 

As he passes the kitchen, Bruce contemplates making himself a cup of coffee, but no. He doesn’t actually _want_ to be up right now. So he bypasses the coffee, for once, but does make himself a mug of peppermint tea; Bruce likes to have something to eat or drink while he works, he just doesn’t _let_ himself, very often. After the tea is done steeping, he heads down to the cave and turns on the computer. The screen’s brightness makes him wince, and Bruce can feel a headache forming. Another reminder that Bruce isn’t as young as he used to be. 

Sighing, Bruce sets down his tea and contemplates if it’s worth it for him to run upstairs to his bedroom to grab his glasses. He decides against it because, hopefully, he won’t be down here that long. Bruce, for once, does want to sleep, and maybe the eyestrain will encourage that. He frowns as he hears Alfred’s voice in his head, lecturing him about how much of an idiot he’s being. But the Alfred-in-his-head concludes that while Bruce _is_ an idiot, he’s not being as idiotic now as he has been about other things in the past (deciding to ~~go after~~ kill Superman all by himself is one of them). So Bruce tells himself to shut up and sits at the desk chair. 

He yawns as he clicks through the files. There’s a lot less to go through since Dick left and Jason— the mouse creaks in Bruce’s hand. There are a lot less files to go through, now. But that has begun to change since the league’s formation. Though Bruce _despises_ paperwork on an almost spiritual level, he does (occasionally) recognize its importance, especially within new organizations. Especially within something as public— and as prone to scrutiny— as the league is (and will continue to be). So Bruce, more or less, has become the paperwork guy. 

_That’s about all Batman’s good for these days_ , he thinks cynically, as his back reminds him of his age again. Bruce _knows_ that he’s not what he once was, that Batman has become laughable next to his league colleagues. He also knows that he’s vain enough that it bothers him. Or maybe, he just doesn’t like the thought of dying. Or maybe, it’s a little bit of professional pride as well. Bruce _has_ worked incredibly hard to make himself what he is, to make Batman the scourge of the night. But now, what is Batman compared to the likes of Superman, of Wonder Woman? What is one mostly gray-haired mortal compared to a literal goddess, or a unkillable Kryptonian? How can he expect to scare anyone anymore when they know that the most he can do is punch them a lot; the alien can fry their brains, or drop them from the edge of the atmosphere— no. Clark wouldn’t do that. Bruce would— he’s the one who _branded_ criminals, after all. Not Clark. Maybe Bruce’s version of him would, but luckily enough for everyone, Bruce’s desires rarely come to fruition, or last long if they do. 

Bruce reaches for the tea, and realizes it’s empty. He growls, and briefly closes his eyes. The headache has grown. His back is now in the middle of a full-blown tantrum. Yet, somehow, he’s managed to go through most of the league’s recent paperwork. Though with how distracted he’s been, someone (most likely him) will have to go through it _again_. On top of this frustration, Bruce is beginning to feel the late night. A glance at the clock reveals it is now 2:55 a.m. Not much use in going back to bed now, no matter how exhausted he is. Diana and Alfred will be sure to yell at him for it later. Great. 

Bruce impatiently pulls open some of his old case files, and ignores the (metaphorical) knife through his gut as he sees Jason’s carefully-worded notes in them. Some of these cases have been cold for a _very_ long time. He’s scrolling through even _older_ case files— some of the last ones he worked on with Dick, when they still had the semblance of a normal relationship— when someone lays a heavy hand on his shoulder. 

To say the least, it is unexpected. 

“Christ!” Bruce shouts. He jumps up, sending the chair spinning, and ignores the _shrieking_ of his back. Before Bruce has the chance to think about it rationally, his hands are already scrambling for a batarang. Then his higher brain functions kick back online, and Bruce realizes that the hand is no longer touching him. That the intruder has stepped back, and is not actually trying to kill him. Or even a threat. Bruce lets out a long, slow breath, and tries not to acknowledge the dizziness he feels from the combination of lack of sleep and sudden atomic charge of adrenaline. He can still feel his heart racing, and then he notices the sharp pain in his thumb. Bruce looks down and sees he’s managed to cut himself on his own batarang by gripping it too hard. Wonderful. 

“I’m so sorry, Bruce!” Clark says. He takes a step forward, then stops. _Of all the things they need, Bruce’s overreactions aren’t one of them_. Bruce swallows, and ignores the small flow of blood from his thumb. He takes one more breath before forcing himself to relax; his current company can hear his heartbeat, after all. 

“Clark,” he says, mustering what little remains of his patience, “may I ask what you are doing here, right now?” _Of all the people to interrupt him when he’s in a mood…_

Clark looks suitably chastised, but his expression is undercut with worry. He looks at Bruce. Bruce looks back at Clark, and blinks. Clark shuffles a bit on his feet and runs a hand through his hair. Bruce suppresses the desire to grind his teeth. 

“I tried calling your name, twice, but you didn’t respond…” Superman says awkwardly, and Bruce suddenly wants to sit down, feeling more exhausted than ever. 

But he _can’t_ ; the old instincts don’t allow it. So instead, Bruce clenches his hands into fists. He winces as the gesture presses on the newly-acquired cut on his thumb. Clark’s unnatural eyes track his every movement, and Bruce feels what little sanity he’s maintained tonight disappearing. So Bruce doesn’t answer Clark’s subtle not-question. Instead, with a fierce scowl in place, he stomps over to the med bay and slams the first aid kit down onto the metal operating table with a satisfying bang. 

Clark, it seems, has followed him. Bruce scrubs his hands, and wraps a band-aid around the minor injury, refusing to feel stupid about it. He can still feel Clark standing there, can’t mistake Superman’s presence. The man practically radiates sunshine, hope, and everything pleasant. He is exactly the opposite of Bruce, of Batman, in every way. _No wonder Bruce had wanted to kill him. He’s excellent at destroying good things_. 

“Bruce?” Clark asks, again. And now he’s clearly worried. Damn. Bruce has the sudden desire to laugh. He has _never_ been good with people. 

As Bruce is stuck in his own head, Clark steps forward. He’s now at Bruce’s side, and, slowly, he lays a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “You okay?” Superman asks, and his voice is nothing but well-meaning concern. 

Bruce sighs, and pulls his head out of his ass long enough to tersely reply, “I’m fine. Why are you _here_ , Clark?” Bruce suspects it may be because Clark is missing Lois. Or perhaps he’s had a bout of insomnia. Bruce thinks that, whatever the reason, Clark is only here to remind himself that he _does_ have people. Because Clark knows that Batman will be up at this late hour, that Bruce would never turn him away, now. Though why he’s come to Bruce, even after the… _improvements_ in their professional relationship, Bruce doesn’t know. 

Clark blinks, and Bruce feels bad for snapping at him. “I… I heard that you were awake, and I,” Clark runs a hand through his hair and sighs, “I was just wondering? Can we talk?” He looks earnestly at Bruce, and now Bruce blinks. For a man who has been a vigilante for upwards of twenty years, it is never a pleasant experience to not know what the next step forward should be. 

Bruce opens his mouth, shuts it, and draws a blank. For some reason, Clark Kent has always rattled him. Finally, Bruce says, “I… suppose.” He pads softly back to the computer, saves his work, turns it off, and finds Clark waiting for him by the stairs. Bruce swallows down unexpected nerves, and does his best to control his heartrate. Silently, he goes past Clark, and up the stairs. Superman follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I wrote ANOTHER fic for _Justice League_. This one requires a bit of explanation (more than usual). It is a continuation of the movieverse, and follows up with what happens after. AU from the movie canon, because here Bruce doesn't use guns; in fact, he's strictly in-favor of gun control. Also, elements of the plot come from _Justice League_ and _Justice League Unlimited_ cartoon series, for more formation of the league stuff (which you'll see in later chapters). Minor trigger warning: This is a somewhat dark fic. Bruce is not nice to himself; he has issues. If mental health stuff is triggering, here's your warning. 
> 
> Also, for those of you who are reading my other on-going fics, fear not! I have not forgotten them. I just couldn't get this out of my head ;) .  
>   
> FINALLY, this is [the lemonade recipe](https://www.deliciousmeetshealthy.com/homemade-lemonade-recipe/) that I reference. 
> 
>  
> 
> (9/8/19: I JUST figured out how to do the fancy, click-y links thing, lol. Am I going to go back through ALL my fics and fix the ugly links? Yes, yes I am).


	2. Rule II: Be Prepared For Unpleasant Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce reflects on his and Clark's talk, which really _did not_ go at all how Bruce expected it to. Also, a phone call to Diana is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Roll each lemon with the palm of your hand, pressing down as you do"  
> — _Homemade Lemonade_ , Step Two.

They’re both still quiet as Bruce enters the kitchen (with Clark acting as his shadow) and fills the kettle mostly out of habit. He’s well past exhausted now, and everything’s taken on a bit of a hysterical edge. He wants to laugh at the image they must make, standing together in the dark kitchen, their clothes ratty enough to be pajama-rejects. He doesn’t. Instead, Bruce goes to fill up two mugs with the hot water. He opens another packet of peppermint tea for himself and hesitates over Clark’s mug. Clark must be watching him closely, because he says, “I’ll have whatever you’re having” in response to Bruce’s hesitation. Bruce nods, and goes for a second bag of tea. 

They sit at the island as the tea steeps, and Clark lets out a quiet sigh. He’s silent another moment before saying, “I have a confession to make.” Bruce turns towards him slightly, and raises an eyebrow in invitation. Clark peers off in the distance, vaguely in the direction of the two steaming mugs. “I listened in on you and Diana, the other day,” he says. And okay, that is _not_ what Bruce had been expecting to hear. 

“Oh,” he says, stalling for time, “why?” 

Clark looks at him apologetically. “Because I heard my name, and… and I was desperate to come up with a way to talk to you,” he says quietly. There’s an edge to him, one that puts Bruce at attention, makes him feel anxious. Then Bruce thinks about the _meaning_ of Clark’s words, and about _his_ part in the overheard conversation. About what he’d said about words, and his inability to use them. Or to talk to Clark. _Oh_. Bruce blushes. 

When he looks up again, Clark is staring at the mugs of tea, which by now are done steeping and have probably become bitter. Bruce is glad of the excuse to get up and do something. He slides off the bar stool, wincing slightly as his back tweaks at the movement, and walks over to the mugs. He tosses the tea bags into the trash, grabs the honey, then pauses. “How do you take your tea?” he asks, looking over his shoulder. 

Clark smiles, and looks as glad for the distraction as Bruce feels. “With a little honey, and some milk,” he says. Bruce nods, and prepares their mugs. As he’s walking around the island, Clark looks up at him, and says patiently, without any hint of judgement, “If your back is hurting, we can move somewhere else.” 

Bruce pauses a moment, and feels himself start to bristle on principle. But he’s tired, and he’s trying not to alienate Clark anymore, and it’s _true_ that his back aches, and it’s also true that the bar stools aren’t a good spot for him, at the moment. Bruce hesitates a second more, for appearance’s sake, before caving. “Okay,” he says, and hands Clark his mug. They make their way to the same place where Bruce and Diana take their tea. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

The sounds of Clark sitting down in what Bruce has come to think of as Diana’s chair, and setting down his mug of tea, are perhaps the loudest things Bruce has ever heard. There is absolute silence in the room again— for Bruce, at least. He is, abruptly and unpleasantly, reminded that for Clark nothing is ever truly silent. He can hear Bruce’s heartbeat (which probably sounds rapid, nervous), the blood rushing through his veins, the slight sounds of the water molecules in their drinks cooling, the ticking of the clock. Clark, for all intents and purposes, is a living lie detector. Bruce has to smother an ironic smile at this, at their contrasts, again; he knows his sense of humor is… lacking, but it is particularly so when he’s running on about two hours of sleep. Speaking of sleep, or lack of it, it is now well into the early hours of the morning— Bruce can read the clock from the corner of his eye. 

For no particular reason, he turns to face Clark, looks him straight in the eye, and says, “I have a board meeting in four hours.” Clark blinks, looking surprised that Bruce was the one to make the first move, conversationally speaking. He looks unsure of what to say. Bruce isn’t sure why he told Superman this, as it has no relevance at all to the man’s life. 

“Is it important?” Clark asks, continuing their small-talk façade. Bruce, somehow, feels relieved; he knows these conversational waters well, and can read their undertones as effectively as any of the languages he’s fluent in. 

For something to do with his hands, he takes a sip of the tea, which has gone tepid by now. “Somewhat. We’re working on a foreign acquisition, one that shows promise. Tomorrow’s meeting is about the financials of the deal,” Bruce says. Clark nods. Bruce remembers that Clark is— _was_ — a reporter, before he died. He’s probably written about things like this before. Bruce assumes so, at least; he’s never actually made an effort to check out Clark’s work, even posthumously. His jaw twitches at the thought, though this is perhaps one of the most minor of his infractions against Clark, against Superman. 

Clark, if he notices Bruce’s abrupt mood shift, doesn’t say anything. In the back of his mind, Bruce ponders whether this is a deliberate move; he’s tangled with enough journalists (both well-meaning and those less so) to know that they have _strategies_ for getting the answers they want, and these can involve planning out conversations with enough efficiency that Batman would be (and often is) jealous. “Oh,” Clark says mildly, after a minute, “is it tech stuff or something else?” 

Bruce, despite himself, relaxes a little. He’s tired, and this is familiar ground. In spite of all else, he does actually enjoy talking shop. Obviously, though, he rarely has the opportunity to. “You could say it’s technology, of sorts. It’s a body armor company, mostly contracted by militaries. They’ve developed some protective gear that we’re interested in,” Bruce answers. 

Clark looks thoughtful for a moment, and then says, “I suppose that _would_ be useful for Batman, wouldn’t it?” 

_Well, fuck. It seems he was right_. That, or he’d just not been cautious enough in steering their conversation out of dangerous waters himself. Bruce tenses, and feels his heart beat nervously, for some unknow reason. No, he knows the reason: he’s worried about what Clark will think, he’s not looking forward to how _vulnerable_ he will seem because of this. Bruce says softly, “Actually, I wasn’t interested in the tech for that. I’ll admit, it’s… a nice side benefit, but that wasn’t the reason for my initial interest.” 

Clark sits up, eyebrow slightly quirked. Bruce tries his best not to feel caught out. “Oh, why’s that?” he asks. 

Bruce looks down at his mug briefly, and then up, and slightly past Clark. “Well, I’m sure you’re familiar with the idea of _school children_ needing to carry bulletproof backpacks,” he says, not quite able to hide his… distaste at the thought, “I was thinking Wayne Enterprises could… get involved somehow. It’d be a stop-gap measure, and we’d use the proceeds to fight the NRA. Also, I’ve been meaning to upgrade the suit for a while now. You may remember the state of my suit after our last major… incident.” 

Bruce is an absolute coward, and so he still can’t look Clark in the eyes. He feels rather like he’s just rolled over and exposed his soft belly to an apex predator— in this case though, there’s no real threat, other than a rather mortal one to Bruce’s sense of privacy, his pride. But, of anyone, Clark is more than worthy of taking those. After all, Bruce has done worse to him. The silence stretches on, for so long in fact, that Bruce risks a glance upwards, and swallows nervously. He forces himself to relax his grip on the mug when he sees how his knuckles have gone white. 

Finally, Clark deigns to give a response. “I think that’s great, Bruce. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” he says, and the abrupt _cheer_ in his voice nearly makes Bruce recoil. He hasn’t felt this much whiplash (emotional or otherwise) since the last time he fought Captain Vertigo. In spite of this, Bruce does take the offer seriously. There has never been a force for good quite like Superman, and if there was ever a cause that needed _hope_ , and a bit of sheer force behind it, it is the fight to bring gun safety to America. 

Still, though, Bruce isn’t by nature, or nurture, a hopeful person; one could say he’s the _poster boy_ for pessimism. He sighs, and looks at Clark consideringly. Clark looks back, and Bruce tries to ignore the wave of nerves that the direct eye contact sets off. Hell, he thought he’d gotten over this by now. Apparently not. “Thank you for the offer… I’m sure there’s something you can do. But unless you intend to demolish the entire National Rifle Association in one sweep, I’m afraid this will be a… frustrating endeavor,” Bruce says, chuckling humorlessly. He knows a thing or two about fruitless endeavors, political or not. 

When Bruce has had enough of wallowing in his own dark humor, he looks up, and catches the tail-end of a rather pained expression on Clark’s face. It wipes the mirthless humor right from Bruce’s face. They descend into silence _again_ , and this time, it is a distinctly more depressed silence. Bruce feels the weight of his eyelids, and in spite of his efforts, a yawn escapes. 

Maybe Clark is feeling the late night as well, or maybe he’s just lost in thought, because at Bruce’s yawn, he jerks upright for a minute— he’d been staring at the wall slightly behind Bruce. He blinks, and focuses in on Bruce again. He offers a faint, kind smile, and stretches, then stands. Bruce follows suit. “Well, thanks for the tea, and for… indulging in my curiosity, Bruce,” he says. They reach for the mugs at the same time, and Bruce feels as if a warm jolt of fire runs through his hand at their brief contact. Clark smiles again, this time apologetically, and says, “Let me get the mugs. I’ll put them in the sink and then see myself out.” 

Bemusedly, Bruce steps back, and agrees, “Alright.” 

Clark pauses at the edge of the living room. “I’ll see you at the next meeting, Bruce. Have a good night.” 

Bruce blinks slightly, and then, with a faint undercurrent of sleep-deprived amusement, says, “Have a good night, Clark.” Clark nods once, before moving away. Bruce barely catches another yawn, and blinks. _Yes, being in a bed does sound incredibly nice, at the moment_. He pads out of the room, and heads towards his bedroom. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

The next morning— well, really _later that same day_ — Bruce wakes entirely too early, considering his less-than-sufficient amount of sleep. He must be extraordinarily snippy, because Alfred questions, with an undercurrent of long-sufferingness in his tone, “Long night, Master Bruce?” Bruce is about to reply that, yes, it _was_ a long night, and he had the most bizarre dream (nightmare) about having tea with Superman on top of it, when he sees the mugs of tea in the kitchen sink. He freezes, unable to focus on anything else. 

He must stand there for a while, because Alfred actually stops what he’s doing for a moment and comes over and touches Bruce on the arm. “Master Bruce?” he asks, a touch of concern coloring his tone. 

Bruce blinks, and forces his gaze away from the incriminating evidence of last night’s (bizarre) conversation. “I’m fine, Al. Just… thinking. Tell me, what’s traffic looking like right now?” 

Alfred gives him another once-over, and then complies. “Well, sir, if you leave in about fifteen minutes, the freeway should be mostly clear, and…” 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

Throughout the day, Bruce is distracted. Things seem to happen behind some sort of veil, and his mind feels partly wrapped in a dense, obscuring fog. He can’t stop replaying that conversation in his head, like a VCR tape run over and over again until it finally wears out. _Surely, surely, there’d been a hidden meaning, or some sort of test, behind Clark’s strangely pedestrian questioning?_ Bruce sighs, and looks down at his keyboard. Right, he’s supposed to be replying to some of the Accounting Department’s queries about this deal. 

“Problem, Mr. Wayne?” his secretary asks. She’s brought him coffee. Excellent. 

Bruce throws on a fetching, care-free smile. “No,” he says, “I’m just trying to think of another word to use in this email— something between ‘interesting’ and ‘puzzling,’ I think.” 

“Hm,” his secretary says, setting down his coffee, “‘Curious?’” 

Bruce snaps his fingers. “Aha! That’s perfect. Thank you, Janet,” he says. She nods, and steps away. 

_Yes, curious indeed…_

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-  
**

At the end of the day, Bruce still feels distracted. He simply _cannot_ stop churning over their strange interaction, is still trying to figure out what Clark _had wanted_ from it. And it’s not just for purely analytical reasons, either. Bruce genuinely wants to know what Clark expects of him, what Clark _needs_ for them to be able to interact with more smoothness than two near-strangers. And yes, it is a partly self-serving desire too; Batman is the most vulnerable member of the team, and for him to survive, the team must run like a well-oiled machine. This cannot happen if two of its pivotal members are busy dancing around each other. “Hgh,” he sighs. _Maybe it’s time to admit defeat_ , Bruce thinks, holding his hand hesitantly over the Bluetooth button in the dashboard. He presses it and says, “Call Diana.” 

“Hello?” Diana says. Bruce scowls through his windshield at the traffic, which seems particularly atrocious today. Or maybe that’s just his attitude. Though Bruce loves Diana, and appreciates her advice, he does not like having to _ask_ for it; that old character flaw, pride, rearing its head again. 

“Hello, Diana,” he says, aiming for a pleasant, or even neutral, tone. 

“Ah, Bruce,” she says. He hears the faint echo of footsteps coming through her side, and then the soft sound of a door closing. Bruce grimaces. _Is he really that easy to read?_ “I was not expecting to speak to you for another day or so. I presume something has changed since our last conversation?” Diana continues, interrupting Bruce’s thoughts. 

He does his best not to sigh, and appreciates Diana’s act of not knowing _exactly_ why he’s calling. “I wasn’t expecting to talk to you, either,” he says honestly, if a bit snappishly. “I talked to Clark.” 

“Oh,” Diana says, “that… is good news. Or perhaps not-so-good, considering this call. Tell me what happened?” 

Bruce frowns out at the road, and has to stop himself from drumming his fingers on the wheel. “No, it’s good news, I think, if not slightly bizarre. He showed up last night, and said that _he_ wanted to talk to me… and we did— talk, that is. Just not about what I thought we’d talk about. It was… oddly light? I don’t know,” he summarizes. 

“Hm,” Diana says, sounding thoughtful. “What, specifically, were you conversing about, if I may ask?” 

Bruce sighs. “He asked me what I was working on, and I told him about some recent W.E. projects… namely the acquisition I told you about earlier. And then, he offered to help. It wasn’t a long conversation. Actually quite short, for what I was expecting. Of course, I did tell him I had an important finance meeting today, so maybe that was it. Anyway, I can’t decide what to make of it,” Bruce says, unable to keep the tense, frustrated edge in his voice from bleeding through. 

Diana, bless her, is a goddess of discretion. Whatever amusement she feels at Bruce’s poor interpersonal skills— and Bruce _knows_ she does feel some amusement at his ineptitude in this particular field— it is entirely hidden from her response. “I see,” she says, and pauses. Then, somewhat more hesitantly, she asks, “and… did Clark say exactly _why_ he wanted to talk to you?” 

Bruce swallows. “Actually, he did. He confessed to _eavesdropping_ on us, and must have heard me talk about my own… inability to use words. Said he had a similar problem.” 

“Mm hm,” Diana says, and it sounds as if she’s decided something. 

“Diana,” Bruce grits out. He hates being led on. 

She chortles in amusement at his brutish impatience. Unlike others, she understands that Bruce’s bad habits don’t come from a place of malice. “I think, Bruce,” she finally answers, “he’s just trying to get to know you.” 

Bruce draws a blank at this. He opens his mouth, and is embarrassed by the confused-sounding noise that escapes. “‘Getting to know me?’” he asks. “But we _work_ together. He already _knows me_ about as well as anyone ever will.” 

There is another pause. This time, Bruce thinks, it sounds like a rather _displeased_ silence on Diana’s end. “Bruce,” she says, using her patient, I’ve-explained-this-to-you-already voice, “you don’t, actually, know each other. Clark is… less logically-driven than you are. He is a writer; to him, ‘knowing’ a person is about more than having access. It is being familiar with their aspirations, what drives them, why they have the opinions they do. You and he do not share that type of familiarity, yet.” 

Bruce blinks. “You’re saying that I’m a _human interest_ piece, to him?” he asks, incredulously. 

At this— his disgust and disbelief— Diana _does_ laugh. “In a way, yes. Clark wants to understand you on a more human level, Bruce. And I would argue that this is what you have been trying to do, too. Now, unless there is anything else, I am afraid that I do have other engagements to get to,” Diana says. 

Bruce swallows his objections. Diana’s been more than patient with him, and has always at least tried to be helpful, so he won’t pester her too much more today. The rest of his questions can wait. “No, I’ll let you go. Thank you, Diana.” 

He can practically hear her smile through the line. “It is, as always, my pleasure, Bruce. Until next time,” she says graciously, and disconnects. 

_Get to know him on a **human** level_, Bruce thinks. It is… different, not a strategy he’s tried before. But if Diana thinks this is what will work best, then Bruce will try it. And generally, when Bruce tries something with serious intent, it has a better chance of going _right_. Bruce lets out a long breath as the traffic finally eases up some, and he can (at last) move more than a few feet forward. The progress feels metaphorical, as well as literal, in the moment.


	3. Rule III: It Takes Time to Forgive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the saying goes, _one step forward, two steps backwards_. This certainly seems to apply to Bruce's relationship with the league. Or maybe not entirely, thanks to Clark...
> 
>  **6/6/2019: So... I just realized that I FORGOT to add a whole section to chapter two of this. Plot doesn't change, but there is more angst, and the ACTUAL CONVERSATION between Bruce and Clark in it. Sorry**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Cut the lemons into slices and add them to a large mixing bowl"  
> — _Homemade Lemonade_ , Step Three.

“For the last time, Barry, we are _not_ getting a _Snapchat_ account,” Bruce hisses. He (barely) resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, both out of frustration, and out of the desire to suppress his tension headache. But Bruce cannot (quite) stop a small sigh from slipping between his lips— he is _supremely_ sick of having this argument, which has been going on for at least fifteen minutes. 

It has been a long two days since his late night conversation with Clark. It has been a long day since his (panicked) phone call to Diana. Bruce has been processing her advice ever since, though he’s _still_ not sure how to act on it. At least he has the (very real) excuse of being too busy to do anything yet. 

After he’d arrived home, the acquisition paperwork had taken up a lot of his time. And before he’d even been able to finish it, Bruce had had to go out on patrol (because he is not as efficient as he once was). Nowadays, things slip through the cracks— at a seemingly _faster_ pace each year— and Bruce has to _let_ them, or risk dropping everything. Sometimes Bruce thinks there’s nothing he _hates_ more than his own (failing) body. 

Once on patrol, Batman had ended up busting a human trafficking ring, so he’d not gotten home until nearly four that morning. But none of this is the league’s concern, so Bruce tries to rein in his temper, which he knows is caused by over-tiredness (because he’s _old_ now, old enough that he could be Barry’s father— and isn’t that a _thought_. _Because fatherhood has gone **so well** for Bruce_). 

They’re all sitting around a make-shift meeting table— which is just Bruce’s steel workshop table, cleared off of all the bits of equipment he’s either fixing or tinkering with— in one of the cave’s mid-level mezzanines. This is one of their monthly league meetings (though they often have more frequent, unscheduled ones), and Bruce thinks it could not have come at a much worse time for him— he’s right in the middle of a new investigation (that human trafficking ring), W.E. is still finalizing the acquisition, and Bruce is _too tired_ to want to do any of this right now. Furthermore, Bruce makes it a principle to despise meetings— this is mostly because of their inefficiency, and for their bullshit posturing. He also hates them because of the meaningless socialization and small talk that often take up precious time during them; this stems from the fact that Bruce has never been good at much more than small talk, and hates how _cold_ and robotic he often sounds due to this personal failing. 

League meetings, thankfully, are usually less painful than W.E. ones— mostly because Bruce doesn’t have to pretend to be an air-headed idiot (he can be a smart, socially-inept _idiot_ here) and can direct the conversation so it runs most efficiently. However, the problem with superheroes is that they’re persistent. Get six of them in a room and the problem multiplies. Currently, that is the source of Batman’s vexation— Flash has got it into his head that, to increase good PR, the league should get _social media_ , which is why they’re arguing about making an official Justice League _Snapchat_ account, of all things. 

Bruce hates social media, despite having _Twitter_ and _Instagram_ accounts, along with a _Facebook_ page. But the nice thing (well, one of the _many_ nice things) about being a billionaire is that he doesn’t have to run his own accounts— he has people for that. But the league doesn’t _have_ people— well, it has Bruce (it has Batman)— and so either he’d have to run the account(s) or someone else (someone tech-savvy) would have to. Either that would be Victor or Barry, and Bruce does not like the sound of those options. He can foresee some sort of PR disaster happening in either case, because something gets posted accidentally, or the account is not run professionally enough, or because someone gets offended. And at this stage in the league’s development, it would only take one big (or even mid-sized really) PR nightmare for things to blow up. Bruce would hate for the league to go up in flames because of _Snapchat_. So he’s very firmly against making any sort of social media accounts. No matter what Flash says. 

Barry opens his mouth to argue again and Bruce loses patience. He snaps, “No. We don’t _need_ social media right now, Flash. Later, once we’ve figured out the _more important_ things— like the league’s organizational framework— we can consider it. But _not right now_.” 

With that, an uneasy silence falls over the room, and Bruce (once again) curses his short tongue, and even shorter temper. He doesn’t _want_ to alienate his colleagues, but it happens more often than not because Bruce has not worked with people since Jason— Bruce has not worked with people that he doesn’t want to isolate for _a long_ time, so he’s out of practice at controlling himself. And these days, Bruce’s temper is like a rabid dog— it lashes out and tries to wound (to infect) everything in sight. This is especially true when Bruce is tired, which is _always_ , because he is old. 

Bruce still has no idea why Diana’s ignored his overtures and attempts at passing on the (unofficial) leadership of the league to her. Batman won’t be around forever, after all, and so it only makes sense to have the _immortal goddess_ take the reins; he’d ask Clark, but Bruce knows what _that_ conversation would end up like (a mess) and so he hasn’t… yet. 

Really, if he’s being honest, Bruce has no idea why he’d even accepted the leadership position, in the first place. 

He has not trusted himself with truly important things for a long time now because he is, essentially, the human-version of Murphy’s law (running W.E. doesn’t count, because Bruce leaves a lot of the day-to-day running of it to Lucius Fox and his very capable underlings). And even if some people (Diana, Alfred, occasionally) would argue against his self-assessment and say that Bruce is being needlessly critical, he would kindly refer them to the (twisted) course of his life. 

His first mistake was alienating Dick (whose brightness was once able to keep Bruce from floundering in the murky depths of his own mind). Since he’s left, there’s no one to do that anymore (Alfred tries, but even he is not capable of _miracles_ ). But his gravest mistake is not this, but everything that ever happened with Jas— his second son. Bruce’s biggest regret is that he let his **son** _die_ at the hands of an enemy that Bruce has not managed to subdue permanently for more than _twenty years_. If (somehow) Alfred or Diana needed more proof that Bruce’s life is a disaster after this, he’d point them to his next biggest fuck-up: that he planned to kill the most powerful force for good _in the world_ , Superman, _and had nearly succeeded_. Bruce could go on listing his mistakes, but he won’t— this particular list would take a _lifetime_ to rehash completely, and Bruce doesn’t have that kind of time to spare, anymore. 

He catches himself frowning, and wipes the emotion from his face. Bruce may know he’s (very) fallible, but Batman must be more than that, more than human, for the league’s stability; and for this to happen, all his doubts must be kept private, every one of his emotions in-check. 

Clark looks around the table, and Bruce sits up. Clark isn’t afraid of speaking up at meetings, but he doesn’t often like to take the spotlight. Bruce has been trying to figure out why, but he hasn’t reached any definite conclusions yet (his working theory is that Clark thinks he’ll suffocate innovation from other members because he’s _Superman_ , and no one would want to disagree with him). Bruce thinks that this is ridiculous (because the only member who causes suffocation of any kind is Batman) and that Clark could _never_ stifle anything— sunlight is a nurturing force, and Clark is nothing but pure _light_. He is nothing like the dark, petrifying _rot_ that is Batman. 

“Speaking of league operations,” Clark says, breaking the lull, “I believe Bruce has been working on some things.” Bruce blinks, as Clark looks at him— polite attentiveness writ in his cerulean eyes— and essentially, passes over the ‘mic.’ It takes another moment for Bruce to gather himself, because Clark’s look feels _different_ somehow, and it leaves Bruce feeling shaken all the way down to his (industrial) black boots. _All he’d done is **talk** to the man, and now Clark is treating him like this_. Bruce marvels, because he doesn’t _deserve it_. 

But, there are things to be said, so he picks up where Clark left off, and says, “Yes, that is correct. I’ve been drafting several documents— a constitution, by-laws, instructions for inducting new members. I will, of course, bring them to you for review once I have finished… and I apologize for the lack of accommodations. I’m also working on funding. Once that’s figured out, we should be able to move forward with constructing a base of operations that _isn’t_ a cave.” 

Diana arches an eyebrow at him, but Bruce can’t tell if it’s a judgement on what he’s said or a judgement of him, so he ignores it. Everyone looks vaguely uncomfortable for some reason. _This is why I don’t do people_ , Bruce thinks sourly. “What?” he asks, and hates how petulantly it comes out. 

Barry sighs. “Well, it’s just that… you’re already doing _so much_ , Bruce, and we— I, at least, and probably the others— aren’t comfortable with making you pay for it all, too.” 

At this, Bruce barks out a humorless laugh. He feels some twisted form of _amusement_ at Barry’s comment, because the league doesn’t know _half_ of the operational things Bruce manages, behind the scenes. This is due to the simple fact that the Bat is, if nothing else, a _master_ tactician, and trusts no one more than himself to keep the league running smoothly, until it’s ready to be passed onto more (long lasting) worthy hands. Bruce is happy to keep it this way— he has the skill for it, and he needs no praise for his work (he likes being invisible). 

The others are looking at him quite strangely now, and with a small pang of pique, Bruce wonders what’s so strange, about his amusement. Then he realizes: some of them may never have heard him _laugh_ before. So he explains, “I’m sorry, but it sounded like you were expressing _concern_ over the financial future of a billionaire, Flash. I must be hearing things.” Flash blushes, and Diana shoots him a quelling look, which Bruce ignores. “I’m fine with paying, in case anyone else is _worried_ ,” Bruce continues. 

There’s another (uncomfortable) silence, and then Arthur says, gruffly, “Hey man, there’s no need to snap at us over it. We were trying to do you a _favor_.” 

Bruce shrugs. “I know,” he says simply, “but I don’t _need_ it. If I wanted a _favor_ done, Arthur, I’d ask you to file your post-mission paperwork sooner.” Now Diana is glaring holes in him (as if she’s trying to be _Superman_ ) and, as the hush crashes over the room, Bruce realizes that he may have been _too harsh_. Again. 

Clark, who’s seated next to Bruce, gives him a side-long glance. He watches as Barry and Victor exchange glances too. _They’ll probably talk about how it’s just Bats being Bats again, after this_ , Bruce thinks wearily. “Well,” Superman says finally, in an obvious attempt to sweep the Bruce-created tension under the metaphorical rug, “unless there’s anything else, I say we should conclude the meeting. Any objections?” 

“None here,” Bruce mutters, standing. Hastily, the others follow his lead. Flash gives an awkward half-wave to the others and then disappears. Arthur slinks off, with a nod towards Clark, and Diana. Victor sighs, mutters something that might be, ‘until next time,’ and walks off towards the stairs. That leaves Clark, Diana, and Bruce. Clark has busied himself with the aftermath of the meeting: empty cups, plates, and extra chairs. Diana has stuck around under the pretext of collecting her papers. 

Bruce sighs internally and walks over. He can tell by the bend of Diana’s mouth that she is _displeased_. 

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**  


These days, it takes a lot out of Bruce to make Diana displeased— she’s learned almost all of his tricks for pushing people away, since Clark’s return. However, when she _is_ displeased, Diana does not keep it from those whom she is displeased with. Bruce (secretly) revels in Diana’s lectures, because they leave him feeling bruised, scraped, and _raw_ in ways that Alfred’s lectures don’t anymore (he’s had far too many _years_ to practice ignoring them). 

When Diana remarks on his character flaws, she doesn’t hold her punches. And it's in these moments that Bruce knows that she’s _absolutely right_ about him. One of Diana’s (unofficial) powers is the ability to judge a person’s character, and she sees right through Bruce, always— it feels nice, to be justified in how he judges himself. Only, he never _tells_ her this because then Diana would stop, if she realized that Bruce _enjoys_ being verbally eviscerated. _‘A product of your self-hatred, Bruce,’ she’d say_ , Bruce thinks. 

He finally comes to a stop in front of Diana. She gives her papers one last displeased shuffle and looks up. She frowns, and lets one frustrated huff of air pass through her lips. Bruce looks down at the table, waiting. “You are better than this, Bruce,” she says. Bruce thinks, _I’m really not_ , but says nothing. “I am _disappointed_ in you,” Diana continues. And ah, there it is. The emotional gut-punch. A grim piece of Bruce almost wants to smile. But he doesn’t, because that would make Diana _concerned_. No one should _ever_ be concerned about Bruce, because it is a useless, time-sucking endeavor— one only has to look at what he’s done to Alfred, over the years, as proof of this. 

At his non-response, Diana tucks her papers under her arm, grimace still in place, and flounces up the stairs. _You didn’t have to do this_ , the Alfred-like voice in his head (the one that Bruce usually ignores because it wants him to be _kind_ to himself) says. Bruce sometimes wishes that he didn’t have to push people away. He stands there for another moment, watching the space where Diana had been, feeling pensive. 

The soft sound of someone clearing their throat makes Bruce jump. Then he feels a spark of irritation, for allowing himself to forget that Clark’s _still here_. Bruce turns towards him stiffly, readying for another fight, if need be. But Superman’s just standing there awkwardly, by the now-spotless table. Bruce swallows, and tries to erase the tension from his jaw (not that it matters, not to the man who can read the tension in him with no more than a millisecond’s-long glance, not to a man who can _smell_ the stress hormones currently circulating through Bruce). 

“Yes,” he says. Only, it comes out harsher than he’d intended, and Clark blinks. Bruce chastises himself for his shortsightedness. _Of course, by pushing away the team, he’s pushed away Clark, too. Because Clark **is** the team, essentially— he is its spirit_. “Did you need something?” Bruce tries again. 

Clark blinks again, but at least he doesn’t look ready to take off at a moment’s notice. “No,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright. You seemed… stressed, today.” Bruce nearly takes a step back at that. Hell, that kind of a shock could _kill_ him. Bruce realizes that the tension’s back in his jaw, that Clark is looking at him like he’s a puzzle, and Bruce is just _standing there_. His mind whirs for something to say. 

Bruce smiles cruelly, letting Clark in on the (self-deprecating) joke, “Nothing particularly wrong here, Clark. I’m just an asshole.” Clark, whether it’s because of Bruce’s crude language, or because of the violent acidity of his statement, jerks back. He frowns for a moment, and a part of Bruce is _pleased_ to see that he can still move _Superman_ , and another part of Bruce mourns his inability to contain the **radiation** that is his personality. 

After another moment, Clark sighs. “Well, I thought I’d ask,” he says. Then, he turns to leave. 

And Bruce, Bruce just can’t help but be obstinate— his many unpredictable mood shifts are enough to give those who know him whiplash. It’d be better to let them _leave_ — but he can’t let them, because Bruce is _weak_ , and doesn’t (truly) want to be alone. Though he should be. So, Bruce says softly, with none of his earlier acidity or bitterness or self-recrimination, “Thanks anyways.” Clark stops. He turns around, enough to meet Bruce’s (troubled) gaze, and nods. Then he turns away, and is gone. 

Bruce stands by the (symbolic) empty table, in the dark, empty cave, and cannot help the small jolt of _feeling_ that passes through his chest (like a thousand volts of Barry’s lightning) at the thought of that one, small nod. Of Clark’s acknowledgment. 

Bruce frowns deeply, still staring at the empty space on the stairs, and feels lost. _Too bad it’s probably not a good idea to ask Diana what this means now_ , his internal monologue sneers mockingly. _Too bad you’ve pushed her away, again. And exactly when you need her advice, too. **Well done** , Bruce_. He lets out a bitter huff of a laugh, and moves away. 

But he’s still stuck thinking about Clark, and that small nod he’d given Bruce before leaving. That small nod, which had said ‘I _see_ you.’ That small nod, which had conveyed more than a thousand words ever could, between them. That small nod, which means that Clark _isn’t_ , miracle of miracles, giving up hope on Bruce yet. Because, as Bruce should know by now, Clark is the epitome of hope, the man of tomorrow. And Superman _never_ leaves behind a man, woman, or child when they need saving. 

_Maybe_ , Bruce thinks wistfully, _Clark sees that I **need** saving_. He snorts immediately at the saccharine thought, and pushes away all other thoughts of similar ilk. Batman has work to do, and so does Bruce. There is no saving him, anyway; best not to have false hope that there is. Batman is not hopeful, after all, and Bruce shouldn't be, either.


	4. Rule IV: Actually Say "I'm Sorry"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has a bad nightmare and feels the need to get out of Gotham. So, where does he run? To the city of tomorrow... to the place of one of his greatest failures. To _Hero's Park_. And guess who he runs into there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Add sweetener and mash the lemons for a couple of minutes until the lemon juices and the sweetener blend together”  
> — _Homemade Lemonade_ , Step Four.

_Hands around his throat. Hands reaching for the armor. Hands reaching, reaching, reaching. Luthor’s monster. Steppenwolf. Dark, suffocating, suffocating, **dark**. Hands, grasping, gripping, fumbling for his heart. His heart. His heart. Pearls. **Bang** , **bang**_ — 

Bruce sits bolt-up in bed, panting. A bead of sweat runs down his forehead, through his eyelashes, and he lets it because he’s too busy just _breathing_. His heart is _thrumming_ , and his hands are shaking. _Nightmare_ , he thinks dazedly, _nightmare. Nothing more_. 

It doesn’t stop his (traitorous) body’s reaction. The inky wisps of it wrap around his brain— like a dark tulle— and obscure all rational thought (Bruce _hates_ not being able to think). The nightmare’s lingering tendrils of terror also twist around his endocrine system, constricting his breathing, and they push his heartrate into a rapid, frightened pace that goes _thumpthumpthump **thumpthump**_. 

As his feet hit the carpeted floor, Bruce stumbles. The shadows make the usually-familiar items in his bedroom _strange_. He feels a vague, all-consuming sense of unease as he pads across the room. Bruce makes it to his ensuite bathroom and, with still-shaking hands, flicks on the light. 

Immediately, he is blinded. But that is okay, because the bright white LED lights of the bathroom vanquish the dark, distract him from the _things_ in his head, and burn away the lingering terror. Bruce blinks away the spots and walks to the sink. He runs the water until it’s _glacial_ and then dunks his head under the faucet. When his lungs feel ready to burst, Bruce surfaces, gasping. It is then that he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror. 

Bruce looks _haggard_ , with the salt-and-pepper stubble, sallow skin (he doesn’t sleep enough, rarely sees the sun), bags under his eyes, fading bruise on his cheekbone, and crazy, dripping hair. But his eyes— Bruce’s eyes are _far_ too expressive (the windows to the soul and whatnot; at least, to whatever _soul_ Bruce has left, after the _things_ he’s done). Their chilled artic blue speaks of the clinical _emptiness_ inside the man to whom they belong. And even standing in a bathroom, with a dripping face, at two in the morning, Bruce thinks he looks haunted. Like a man who’s familiar with the dark— a man who frequently shares a bed with fear. 

Finally, his breathing’s under control, but his grip on the cool marble counter is still too hard, and his fingers have gone bloodless, and his knuckles are white. Bruce meets his reflection’s judgmental, wounded gaze and asks himself, “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” 

He goes to turn off the light, but pauses. _There’s no way **in hell** that he’s going to be able to sleep again tonight_. Bruce sighs, and swallows the rising itch of _do something, do something, move, move_ and paces from the sink to the shower and back. Panicking never helped anyone. And Bruce recognizes that that’s what is going to happen here if he doesn’t figure out something. 

He marches out of the bathroom and slams a hand against the light switch. His room lights up in a bright blaze, and Bruce strides to his wardrobe. He pulls out street clothes without much thought (except to their ubiquity and dark color) then dresses rapidly. He switches off the light and crushes down the moment of unease that pricks him, as the dark rushes in. 

Bruce creeps down the stairs to the garage (Alfred had insisted on staying with him for a while after the _incident_ with the league two weeks ago). Bruce has not seen anyone, even Diana, since then— and he thinks firmly, _Your fault. It’s all your fault_ and _I deserve it_. He ignores how their absence stings, how _sad_ it makes him. Bruce has always been better alone. It is _safer_ that way. 

Bruce wants something _fast_ , something _reckless_ , so he takes the Porsche 911 convertible. The car purrs as he starts the engine, and Bruce tears out of the garage _like a bat out of hell_ ; he doesn’t know where he’s going, just that he needs to _get away_. Once he’s on the highway (not another car in sight, not this early), Bruce lowers the top, and relishes in the breathless feeling caused by the cool air rushing past his face as he pushes down on the gas pedal. 

The wind whips through his hair with more fury as he goes faster. Faster. _Faster_. It makes it easier to ignore the breathless feeling in his chest, the one that originates from _within_. 

****

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Half an hour later, Bruce reaches the bright (even at this hour) outskirts of Metropolis. He slows down considerably— it should have taken him _at least_ another fifteen minutes to reach the city, even at three in the morning— and takes a breath. Unlike Gotham, Metropolis doesn’t shut down at night (only Gotham’s criminal underworld, the cops, and the Bat are out at night. Anyone else who is could be labeled as either foolish or _suicidal_ ). The city of tomorrow is constantly going, going, _going_ long past midnight— Bruce even passes a few restaurants, a coffee shop, and some bars that are open, despite the hour. 

And why _should_ Metropolis shut down at night? Its citizens have nothing to fear from the dark— the last son of Krypton provides enough light that nothing is shadowed, no dark corners loom (even at night). Here, people can cut through alleys without getting _shot_. And isn’t _that_ a thought. After twenty years of the Bat’s interference, the same can’t be said for Gotham. **Nobody** uses alleys as shortcuts, in Gotham. Nobody feels _safe_ in Gotham (and so, Batman has _failed_ ). 

But not everyone likes to stay up so late. Although the city _can_ stay open, that doesn’t mean that it does. The residential streets, then the shops, and then the high-rises are quiet as Bruce drives past. When he reaches downtown, it is _eerie_. Almost reminiscent of after the Black Zero event— but no. Realistically, it’s nothing like that. 

After all, almost four years have passed since the world was first introduced to the awesome power of Superman, and the terrible **wrath** of his people. The city has recovered remarkably since then because of charitable donations, the hard work of its citizens, and the considerable efforts of Superman himself. No, the downtown has none of the dust, chaos, ruin, or grit of that time. Yet, that is still what the quiet of the place reminds Bruce of (because he’s pessimistic, _clinically_ so). It’s another of his toxic personality traits. 

There is one place, however, that still serves as a hold-over of those times: _Hero’s Park_. 

Bruce remembers the route there well. He will _always_ remember the route there well. Firstly because it serves as a monument to his failure: as a so-called hero, as a man. Secondly, it is the site of the abrupt, and **bruising** , birth of the possibility of his _redemption_. Not that Bruce _deserves_ it— not even now. Not even with the role he’s played in the formation of the league. 

The car’s engine runs smoothly— serving as background noise in the much-too-quiet streets— as Bruce drives slowly, reminiscing. 

****

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As expected, there is ample on-street parking, at three thirty a.m. Bruce parks two blocks away from the park, so that he has time to approach it slowly. Since Superman’s return, the park has remained closed to the public; it won’t do to have a _mausoleum_ for a living man, after all. One could say it’s bad luck, or that it’s _rude_. Construction has started, in some form— Bruce can see the piles of dirt— but as far as he knows, no official plan has been decided upon yet. It is, in a dark and cynical way, _funny_. 

There don’t appear to be any security cameras, but Bruce tugs down his baseball cap— with the Gotham Knight’s logo— anyway. Then he analyzes the fence clinically, and takes a few steps back. Bruce runs at the fence and leaps. He doesn’t clear it, but he makes it at least four feet up, and catches the top of it with his hands. After another moment, he’s up and over the top. Bruce drops down, and lands in a nearly-silent crouch. _Not too shabby, for an old man_. He smirks, self-satisfied; an aspect of being Batman that Bruce relishes is the _freedom_ of it. Although, what he— a single white man and _billionaire_ — needs freedom _from_ , Bruce doesn’t care to consider too closely. 

If Bruce thought it was quiet before, well, the park is _dead silent_. The thought twists his mouth into a grimace. Since the park’s closure, the grass has grown— although it is still watered— and tickles his ankles. It adds a soft _hush_ to Bruce’s walk. He feels exposed in the open space (the few trees would offer laughable shelter, if something were to happen here). Bruce swallows again, and has a brief flashback to that fateful day ( _“You won’t let me live, you won’t let me **die** ”_). Oh. That’s what this… tension is. He hasn’t been back here since Superman’s resurrection. 

The monument (mausoleum) looms in the moonlight, untouched. Bruce’s heart is _pounding_. He wants to leave, but can’t. It is like some magnetic force, some gravity, is drawing him in. _Idiot_ , Bruce snarls at himself, _what did you think you would find here? Closure? Relief? Peace? Ha_. Bruce has _never_ found peace in graveyards, even those for no-longer-dead aliens. Even those that are far too extravagant for a simple, kind man from Kansas. 

As Bruce steps clear of the (meager) shelter offered by the few trees, his breath stutters. Despite the relative warmth of the night (really very-early morning), Bruce feels chilled, and stumbles to a stop. His fists shake, and Bruce presses his nails into his palms until the sharp sting of it pulls him from his trance. He takes a step forward. Then another. And another. 

The monument blends into the night, and is _softened_ by it, somehow. Bruce gazes up at the (metal) face of Superman. How did he _ever_ think his expression was callous, was cold and self-righteous? How could he have _ever_ labelled **Superman** as cruel? How did Batman once **dare** to do such things, when he was the one who was callous, cold, self-righteous, and _cruel_. “I was wrong,” he mumbles aloud softly, then chuckles. _Not that I’d ever be able to **tell him** that_. 

“I was wrong,” Bruce says again. This time, he says it loudly, and firmly. It seems to echo through space, and time. Perhaps if he screams it loud enough, it will reach backwards and Superman will hear it, before Bruce does him wrong. Perhaps it will _change_ things. But no, that is a fool’s wish, and despite being very foolish in some regards, Bruce is not that kind of fool. 

He continues forward, his steps echoing slightly on the slate. Bruce soon finds himself standing before the large statue of Superman, so closely that he has to look up. It feels right, that he is so small— and in such a servile position— in front of the other man’s representation. Batman deserves nothing else. _It was Batman who was hubristic enough to brand Kal El a fallen and dangerous god, it was Batman who took that same power and used to label himself a hero— the hero of humankind, no less. It was Batman who usurped the rightful place of Superman. It was Batman who thought he could be a just and righteous god in his stead_ , he thinks. But now, Bruce understands— truly _comprehends_ — that Batman is only mortal. The will of the gods around him is the sole thing that permits Batman to be what he is. 

Bruce laughs bitterly. He takes a breath, and squints upwards into the darkness that clings to the massive face of Superman’s statue. “‘O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall?’” he murmurs. Dante seems appropriate, for this moment. 

“‘I did not die, and yet I lost life’s breath,’” Clark’s voice says softly. “‘There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery.’” 

Bruce jumps, and it feels as if his heart will launch from his throat at the surprise. _Weak! **Unprepared**_ , screams Batman’s voice in his head. Bruce turns around, and sees Superman floating about two feet off the ground behind him, at the base of the steps. Bruce stays quiet, and watches the other man. Clark’s eyes look sad, though it is hard to tell his exact expression in the darkness; this is perfect proof of Batman’s _human fallibility_. 

When he sees that he has Bruce’s full attention, Clark continues, “‘In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost. Ah, how hard a thing it is to tell what a wild, and rough, and stubborn wood this was, which in my thought renews the fear!’” Bruce swallows, quoting along in his head. Though Clark has not been quoting from the same part of _The Divine Comedy_ as Bruce was, or even from consecutive passages, the effect is powerful enough. 

He falls quiet, and the silence roars through Bruce’s ears. Superman floats forward slowly, and without a single sound, sets down a foot away from Bruce. He walks forward, unhurried, and his cape floats out behind him, despite the fact that there is no breeze. _I wonder if that’s an alien thing or just a Clark thing_ , Bruce wonders absently. The overall effect is quite regal, and probably intimidating, to lesser men; Bruce, in spite of everything, is not a _lesser man_. Though perhaps he is in spirit, in soul, in **goodness**. 

Superman’s standing directly in front of him (only a few inches away), and the statue presses in behind him. Bruce feels, suddenly, _trapped_ by the weight of Superman’s attention. He swallows again, and stands straight and still, welcoming the judgement. _‘If the present world go astray, the cause is in you, in you it is to be sought’_ , Bruce thinks. Clark is still silent, still just _looking_ at him. Bruce’s tongue feels stuck to the bottom of his mouth. _Say something!_ his brain screams. But words have escaped him. 

Finally, it is Clark (once more) who breaks the silence. “What are you doing here, Bruce?” he asks. 

The conversational tone, and the volume of Clark’s statement, feel wrong here, at the location of a mausoleum that is no longer a mausoleum, at a monument that no longer remembers, at a park that has no people. But then again, the man before Bruce should be exempt from such things; this is _his_ space, after all. Superman can do with it as he wishes. “I… couldn’t sleep,” Bruce says. There’s another awkward pause. Clark lifts an eyebrow: ‘yes. But why are you _here_ , in Metropolis?’ Bruce takes in another breath, and clarifies, “I couldn’t sleep— had a nightmare. Occasionally, well, more than _occasionally_ , I also suffer from insomnia. Have since I was a kid. Anyway, I couldn’t sleep, and needed to get out of the house.” 

“Out of Gotham,” Clark says. 

Bruce can’t tell if he’s correcting, or _asking_ , so he just says, “Yes.” Clark nods, as if this makes total sense. As if driving to a _whole other city_ at (roughly) two in the morning isn’t an **utterly insane** thing to do. He offers Bruce a faint smile. 

“Sometimes I can’t sleep either, not that I really need to,” Clark says absently. Bruce flinches. If he had to guess, Bruce wouldn’t hesitate to bet that _Batman_ is the reason Superman loses sleep. Clark frowns, at his flinch. 

Bruce takes a deep breath. _On a human level_ , he reminds himself. Heart beating rapidly, Bruce meets Superman’s curious— and slightly confused— gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says clearly. Superman looks at him a moment (he does **not** ask what Bruce is apologizing for), and Bruce’s heart can’t, simply _cannot_ , stay still at a time like this. The very air around them seems to freeze, as Superman looks at Bruce, and as Bruce looks at Superman. He holds his breath, and his future seems to hang in the balance (though the reality of the situation is ~~probably~~ definitely less dramatic than that). 

“Apology accepted,” Clark says. Bruce nearly falls faint. He feels bowled over. Clark smiles mischievously at him ( _doesn’t he know what that does to Bruce? Doesn’t he **know** how his expressions move Batman, like a boat in the ocean_) and says, “Seeing as it’s basically morning, would you like to come over for coffee?” 

“Sure. Why the hell not,” Bruce says far more casually than he feels. Internally, Bruce is _reeling_. It feels like he’s been knocked in the head, he’s that dazed. “Does your place have parking?” 

“Yeah. Give me a second to get changed,” Clark says— Bruce absently realizes that this is a quite _literal_ statement— and then he disappears. After two of Bruce’s breaths (he counts), Clark reappears, exactly where he was standing before. This time he’s wearing a pair of non-descript squarish black glasses, a red and black plaid shirt, faded blue jeans, and a pair of black converse with white soles and white laces. Bruce blinks owlishly in the pale, pearly-pink early morning light (he’s feeling quite tired now) and tries not to show how Clark’s reappearance has unnerved him. Though he’s seen Clark change before— they all have— he’s never been on the receiving end of a disappearing act, he’s never paid it that much attention before (there’s always been some emergency distracting him). It is, similarly to all the other aspects of Clark’s life, astounding. _Like a magic trick_ , Bruce thinks bemusedly. 

“We should probably go before it gets any later,” Clark says. “Where did you park?” 

Bruce blinks, and shoves away his lingering disquiet. “I don’t know the street name. But it’s only two blocks away— I’ll know it when I see it,” he answers, heading back the way he’d come earlier. It feels slightly dream-like, to be retracing his steps with _Clark_ as his company. Bruce chalks the feeling up to tiredness. 

They walk in (almost) complete silence, and Clark is content to walk at Bruce’s pace. He stays just behind Bruce, to the left— out of Bruce’s peripheral vision. But Bruce knows he’s there, and this unnerves him slightly because, in his experience, only people who want to _kill him_ stay out of his line of sight. Bruce doesn’t tell Clark this, though— if he did, Superman would laugh and call him a paranoid bastard (which he is). Once they reach the fence, Clark asks, “Need help?” 

Bruce spins around, a sharp retort on his tongue, when he sees Clark’s (increasingly familiar) mischievous grin. On principle, Bruce glares at him. Then he turns and runs at the fence. To his pleasure, he lands even higher than before, and it only takes an additional hop to get up and over all the way. Once again, Bruce drops silently to the ground. When he straightens up, he sees Clark watching. Bruce arches an eyebrow. Clark shrugs, and then gestures forward with his hands: lead the way. 

“Hh,” Bruce sighs. He stalks past Clark, knowing that the other man will follow. 

****

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They reach the car about five minutes later. Bruce has a hand on the driver’s door before he realizes that Clark is no longer following. Instead, he’s still standing a few feet away on the sidewalk. At Bruce’s glare, he whistles— as if that explains anything. 

“Nice ride,” he says appreciatively, after a moment. 

Bruce smirks. “I know. It’s _fast_. Would you like to drive?” Clark actually staggers a step back, eyes wide as baseballs, at the question. Bruce snickers. After a moment, he gets a hold of himself, and sees the tail-end of an even more _shocked_ expression as it’s wiped from the other man’s face. 

“A-are you _serious_?” Clark asks. He sounds like a kid who’s just been told they’re going on vacation a week early. 

Bruce wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. “When am I _not_ , Clark? Besides, I have no idea how the hell to get around this damn city anyways. I trust you won’t wreck it.” He smirks. Clark, predictably, rolls his eyes. 

“Very funny. But if you’re sure…” he walks over. Bruce tosses him the keys. He hops into the passenger’s seat, and carefully and deliberately _does not_ think about Clark’s excited smile as he sits behind the wheel, and the warm glow that the expression ignites in his chest. They tear away from the curb and off into the morning, leaving behind the sounds of Clark’s excited whoops and of a well-running engine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Clark's quotes come from Dante's work, _The Divine Comedy_.


	5. Rule V: Show Sincerity— Act as You Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce, somehow, winds up in Clark's apartment, and they have another inappropriately-timed conversation. He also ends up having coffee (and breakfast) with Clark. Why these things _keep happening to him_ , Bruce doesn't know. 
> 
> Later, he realizes some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Strain the liquid (2 cups), and add 8 cups of water to a glass pitcher”  
> — _Homemade Lemonade_ , Step Five.

Even with the top down (and Clark’s inexperience driving a fast, expensive car making the ride _bumpy_ ), Bruce finds himself nodding off. _As if falling asleep in front of Clark is the worst thing you’ve done to him_. By the time they reach Clark’s apartment, the sunrise has passed, and the sky is a light gray, its edges bleeding blue. 

They pull up in front of a brownish-red brick apartment complex. It’s five stories tall, with the occasional balcony and flowerbox. Bruce hasn’t been paying enough attention to their surroundings to ask if his car is in danger of being stolen. If it is, **Batman** can always track it down later. 

Clark jerks the car to a stop, and Bruce can’t help the small snort that escapes his mouth— he’s never been good at controlling himself (that’s why he wrecks everything), but the problem worsens when he’s not slept. “Hey! Not all of us drive _sports cars_ , Bruce,” Clark chides gently. By his emphasis, Bruce gets the hint that Clark is referring to his _other_ car. 

“And most of us never will,” Bruce responds smoothly. He offers a bland Brucie smile to Clark. Superman has the gall to roll his eyes. He climbs from the car and Bruce follows him, thinking sourly, _like a lost puppy_. Out of nowhere, Clark tosses the keys at him. Thankfully, even if Bruce’s brain isn’t working, his instincts _are_ — he plucks the keys from the air and locks the car. 

Clark strides up to the door and opens it, without even inputting a code. Bruce’s brow furrows. He reminds himself harshly that Clark is the strongest being on Earth, possibly _in the galaxy_ , and doesn’t need security. Regardless of this fact, Bruce had been, for one moment, _concerned_ about Clark's safety. Which is _ridiculous_. This is something he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on. 

Clark, as if he’s a mind reader— Bruce thanks whatever deity that _isn’t_ listening that Superman is **not** one— says, “It’s the best I could do, after Lois and I split.” And that sends a fresh, hot wave of _guilt_ through Bruce. _They’d been planning on getting **married** before you happened_, he thinks. This time, Bruce has somehow managed to mess up a relationship that isn’t his. _Almost refreshing_ , he thinks sarcastically. 

“Hm,” Bruce says. He follows Clark inside. 

****

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Clark’s apartment is on the fifth floor. He says there’s an elevator, but Bruce glares him into submission. They walk up the stairs in silence, and Bruce ignores the slight stabs of pain that emanate from his knees (he’s been in something of a **foul** mood these past two weeks, and has made more dramatic entrances to crime scenes than strictly necessary). _Fool_ , the Batman’s voice hisses at him. 

The apartment is a corner one, so it’s at the end of the hall. Bruce feels oddly nervous, as Clark pulls out his keyring and unlocks the door. If Superman notices anything, he doesn’t say (he’s too polite to, unlike Bruce). Again, Bruce follows Clark, and is surprised at what he sees. The apartment is small, but not nearly as dismally-small as Bruce had been expecting. It has a whole wall of windows which fill the space with _light_. The ceilings are high, and the wood floor (though a bit scuffed) is clean. Bruce spins, and sees Clark still has a few boxes in the corner, and his lamp sits on the floor. But he’s also got a large (if slightly beat-up) couch, and a coffee table. “Bruce? How do you take your coffee?” Clark calls. 

Bruce blinks. He turns slowly, chastising himself for not paying attention. _He’s being rude_. “Black,” he says. After a moment, he adds, “Thank you.” Alfred would be pleased— and what low bars he has for Bruce, these days. _Watching me almost kill a man will do that_ , he thinks cynically. Clark, thankfully, has been too busy making coffee to pay attention to Bruce’s inept social skills. So Bruce continues to look around. Clark’s laptop is resting on the table, and he has two coats and a beat-up pair of shoes in the small entryway area. On the opposite side of the space are two doors— Bruce guesses that they lead to the bathroom and the bedroom. There is a wrought iron balcony. Bruce’s phone buzzes and he silences it— but not before he checks the time: 5:25 a.m. He stifles a yawn in his fist. _Go be social_ , he orders himself. 

Bruce pads over to the small kitchen area. The used-looking coffee machine beeps as he leans casually against the kitchen island. Clark only has one wobbly-looking bar stool, and Bruce is not sure he trusts it to hold his weight (but he doesn’t want to be rude by _asking_ ). As Clark pours the coffee, Bruce is struck by a thought. “Does coffee even work on you?” he asks curiously, before he can stop himself. Clark tenses. Bruce tenses. _He’s done it again_. 

After a moment, Clark unfreezes. He turns around, two steaming mugs in hand. “Tell you what,” he says, “I’ll give you an answer for an answer.” Bruce tenses again, but forces himself to relax. It’s just, Bruce never comes off _very well_ , with ‘deals’ like this; too many secrets, too much posturing, too much of people turning away from the darkness, the brokenness they find in him when he’s _honest_. Yet what choice does he have? 

“Sure,” Bruce says neutrally, standing. He strides over to Clark, and barely avoids brushing his shoulder. Clark hands him a mug. Bruce follows him to the couch (which is as comfortable as it looks). He sits as far away from Clark as is polite. Clark takes a sip of the coffee, and Bruce does a few seconds later. It is all he can do to keep his eyes from closing at the smooth, jolting taste of a cup of good coffee; it’s been a long night. Sometimes, it feels as if caffeine is Bruce’s only friend. 

Clark sets down his mug on the coffee table, and turns to Bruce. Bruce is rather more reluctant to relinquish his caffeine (it is quite possible he’ll be able to go to bed right after getting home, even with the coffee in him). “To answer your question,” Clark says, “I’m not affected by caffeine, I just like the taste of coffee. My Pa used to drink it— habit, I guess.” 

“Mm,” Bruce acknowledges. He takes another fortifying sip, and tries to brace himself for Clark’s question without looking like that’s what he’s doing. Bruce is good at subterfuge— somehow though, his brain sometimes seems to confuse that with self- _sabotage_. Clark squints into the middle distance and Bruce wants to snap at him that the _eye contact_ isn’t going to make this any worse, that it isn’t going to _scare him away_. 

“Why are you so nervous around me?” Clark asks. Bruce blinks. His hands clench around the mug. _Oh, he was not ready for a question like that_. 

“I’m not nervous around you,” he blurts. But he is, he is, _he is_. Bruce is **terrified** that someday Clark will come to his senses, and realize how (rightfully) disgusted he is by Bruce… And apparently his brain has decided that it’s time to abandon ship. He is forgetting that Clark cannot be _lied to_. Clark gives him a look, and Bruce struggles to remain calm. It is like trying to captain a shipwreck, but he thinks he manages to maintain a façade of calmness fairly well. Until Clark gently (far more gently than Bruce deserves) pokes his rigid shoulder and arches a brow. Bruce relaxes, and strengthens his watchfulness over his heartrate (in case Clark tries to _touch_ him again). 

“I thought we _weren’t_ bullshiting each other, anymore,” Clark says patiently. 

Bruce nearly chokes on his coffee. Clark thumps him once on the back and Bruce briefly has to wrestle with his heartrate; he hasn’t been _embarrassed_ this regularly since his boys first came to live with him, and he realized how _helpless_ around them he was (Bruce should have taken that as a sign— he was _never_ meant to be a father). Finally, he manages to spit out, “I’m not bullshitting _anyone_ , Clark. I’m just… not used to this— talking to other people.” And _fucking Christ_ , Bruce needs to stop talking right godamned now. _What the fuck are you **doing**?_ his brain screams. 

A brief expression of annoyance passes over Clark’s face before it’s wiped out in favor of a bland, neutral, and non-judgmental look— one Bruce recognizes from Superman’s face, when he’s talking to witnesses. He tries not to scowl. “Then why do you do the heartrate thing around me?” Clark asks, peering curiously at Bruce. Bruce freezes. His brain stutters to a halt. 

“What?” he manages to ask woodenly. 

Clark continues obliviously, as if he’s explaining how to solve a particularly difficult puzzle to someone, “You know, where it goes all still and _too_ regular— I swear, when we were fighting Steppenwolf, I thought there was something _wrong_ with you…” he trails off, finally catching onto Bruce’s less-than-stellar mood. 

Bruce swallows the last of his coffee and reminds himself that he’s running on next-to-no sleep, and that it would be highly, _highly_ inappropriate to freak out on Clark right now, even if he wants to. “What?” he says again, intelligently. Bruce realizes he’s staring and averts his gaze to the set of empty coffee mugs on the small coffee table. Not for the first time, he wishes he wasn’t as socially awkward— that way he could find a way to extricate himself from this conversation. But Bruce is Bruce, for better (actually, most definitely for **worse** ), and so he simply looks back up at Clark, who blinks. This time, _he_ looks embarrassed. 

“I… er, _listen_ sometimes, to heartbeats,” he admits. Bruce stills, and carefully _does not_ allow his heart to lurch out of his chest. _He had **known** there was no lying to Clark, but this is something else_. The apartment abruptly feels not-large-enough. Clark amends, “But I don’t just listen to yours— that’d be _creepy_. I try to only do it if I feel like someone’s in danger.” 

Bruce feels like he’s on the edge of some precipice, as the seconds tick by in silence. He realizes he’s staring into the bottom of his empty mug again, and that he’s lost all control of his heartrate. He takes a calming breath and tries to think of something _rational_ to say to… _that_. “I… see,” Bruce says, feeling _stupid_. 

“That doesn’t _bother_ you?” Clark asks. He actually sounds anxious about what Bruce thinks. This startles a tired burst of laughter from Bruce. _If only Clark could see the irony of it_. He sighs, and it almost, _almost_ turns into a yawn. Everything has taken on a slightly-blurred, gritty quality and the sunlight hurts his eyes. Clark has a puzzled expression on his face. Bruce sighs again, and sits back against the couch back. 

“Would it _matter_ if it did?” Bruce asks. He aims for a neutral tone, but it comes out more petulant than he’d wanted. Wonderful. Clark looks hurt, for a microsecond. The expression smooths over and is neutralized— he has that pleasant, ‘you are safe, citizen’ look on his face again. Bruce almost tells him to knock it off, but he doesn’t. 

“Of course it does, Bruce. I don’t want you to feel _nervous_ around me.” At this, Bruce groans, and runs a hand over his face, and his tired, throbbing eyes. He leans forward again. 

“Damnit, Clark. I’m not _nervous_ , I told you already! I’m just… awkward. Believe it or not, I wasn’t exactly a _normal_ child, and my… _nightly activities_ don’t leave a lot of room for socializing,” Bruce spits out, before he’s thought it through. He goes to stand; enough of this twenty questions, and damn what Clark thinks. The rest of the league hates him already— _maybe Diana will finally take that leadership position he’s been begging her to_. 

As he’s about to stride away, Clark grabs his hand and Bruce is jerked to a stop. He turns slightly to glare at Clark, and can’t help the biting flare of annoyance that runs through him. Bruce _does not_ appreciate being jerked around by anyone, even Alfred. Clark lets go. Bruce pettily tugs his own hands away and tucks them by his side. “At least let me make you breakfast, before you go,” Clark requests. 

Bruce’s stomach lurches. He is reminded of the fact that the last thing he ate was _dinner_ yesterday at eight; it is now probably close to 6 a.m. He feels a stab of anxiety run through him, at the thought of spending any more time here as _himself_ — Bruce has always felt better under a mask, where he doesn’t have to explain himself to anyone, can escape whenever he wants. He is not _used to_ people being genuinely interested in him, not in the way Clark seems to be. This interest (and Clark himself, really) _unnerves_ him. 

But why would anyone be interested, anyway? Brucie Wayne is a worthless bastard, and Batman— that does not even bear thinking about. These days, the only person who could possibly be said to be _fond_ of Batman is Alfred, and he doesn’t count. The commissioner tolerates him, and that is it (Bruce refuses to think of how it once was, how it _could be_ again, if he wished it). Bruce tries not to wish for things, these days. “Fine. I’ll stay. As long as there’s more coffee,” he says bluntly. 

For some reason, Clark looks _amused_. Bruce wants to scowl at the jitters that run through him, because of that expression. He doesn’t. Clark stands, and carries both coffee mugs back to the kitchen. Bruce, once again, follows. He sits on the questionable bar stool and waits. Clark refills his mug and starts gathering ingredients. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

There is _silence_ as Clark cooks. Bruce rubs his tired eyes, and has to stifle another deep yawn. He drains the second mug of coffee. The morning light is now streaming through the windows. Bruce takes a moment to appreciate the apartment again. He could almost get used to this— except, that will never happen. Because why would _Clark_ want to be friends with **Bruce**? He may want to get to know him, as Diana says, but that _does not_ mean he wants to befriend Bruce. He may have accepted Bruce’s (lackluster) apology, but even this does not mean that Clark wants friendship. Bruce would do well to recall his past, and what happens to those he’s _friends_ with. No… Clark must not— _cannot_ — want that. 

But Bruce imagines a future like that anyway, for a moment: him, coming over to Clark’s regularly for breakfast, the pair of them talking about work, life, cases, Bruce giving him updates on the boys, Clark discussing the story he’s writing. He scowls down at his empty cup. _Sentimental fool_ , he thinks sourly, feeling betrayed by the pang in his heart, by his feelings. Bruce has long wished that he could feel _nothing_. Alfred says it has turned him cruel. Bruce simultaneously hopes that Alfred is right, and prays that he’s wrong. He feels lost somewhere in-between these two desires, most days. It is not a pleasant place to be. 

“I hope you like egg scrambles,” Clark says, interrupting Bruce’s brooding, “I need to go grocery shopping, so I had to throw together what I had in the fridge.” 

Bruce snorts. “I—” a yawn interrupts his speech, much to Bruce’s annoyance, “I don’t care, Clark. Whatever you’ve made will be fine.” He doesn’t say, ‘I don’t usually eat breakfast, anyway.’ That wouldn’t be appropriate. Clark, unfortunately, looks like he hears it anyway. But he doesn’t comment on it, and Bruce, irrationally, feels grateful. He scowls, and berates himself for more sentimental idiocy. 

Clark brings him a plate, which actually does look appetizing, and carries another for himself. Then, answering Bruce’s question about where he is going to sit, Clark floats a few feet up in the air, and tucks his legs so it looks like he’s sitting on an invisible stool next to Bruce. “Christ,” Bruce mutters, half-amused, half-annoyed. Clark wiggles his brows. 

“Afraid not,” he says. Bruce groans, and takes a bite to hide the amused twitch of his mouth. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

They’ve mostly stopped eating now, and the food has settled like a weight in Bruce’s stomach. He feels almost as if Alfred has slipped him a sleep aid, only there’s no Alfred here and (he assumes) no sleeping pills, either. Bruce tries not to show how tired he is, and doesn’t ask for a third cup of coffee despite desperately _wanting_ one— that would alert Clark to how tired he is. 

Clark sets down on the floor and starts gathering dishes. Bruce pushes back from the island and stands as well. He grabs the pan, spatula, and other dirty cooking utensils and washes them; the sooner he can leave, the better (before he embarrasses himself again). Clark hums appreciatively. As he’s drying the pan, another yawn slips through Bruce’s clenched teeth. He barely suppresses a sigh. Clark remains silent, so Bruce thinks he is in the clear. Until Clark comments, “You know, Bruce, I wouldn’t mind if you crashed here for a while— if you need to.” 

Bruce does sigh, at this. That is a bad idea— in fact, this _whole trip_ has turned out to be a _very bad_ idea. Bruce had intended to come to Metropolis to escape his demons, not _chase after them_. He looks over at Clark, who has that familiar, determined expression on his face— the one Bruce is starting to recognize from fights. The one Clark wears when he thinks he’s right. Internally, Bruce groans. There is no arguing with _that_ face. Everyone thinks Bruce is the most stubborn league member, when really, it’s _Clark_. Bruce imagines saying, ‘Of course I’ll stay, Clark, since you asked’ and has to suppress a grimace. 

Somehow, he hasn’t managed to shut out Clark like he has other people (the man is just too good at leaping over— or breaking through— barriers, including Bruce’s emotional ones). Somehow, this has led to Bruce having an inability to say _no_ to the other man, and it is **irritating**. Clark seems not to have figured this out, but Bruce doesn’t know how; he is frequently argumentative and recalcitrant towards everyone else, so _Superman_ should have picked up on the fact that he’s the only exception. But he _hasn’t_. This is something that will have to be examined at a _later_ date. 

Bruce _does_ feel exhausted, and it would probably be inadvisable for him to drive right now. 

He says glibly, “Ordinarily, I’d reject your offer, but I’d hate even more for Superman to have to come to my assistance out on the road.” Clark smiles, and Bruce is irritated at how that expression makes him feel like he’s done something _right_ ; Bruce doesn’t need anyone’s approval and he shouldn’t _want_ it either, _goddamnit_. So he clarifies: “I’m only staying for a short while.” 

Clark takes this in stride. “Do you want a blanket?” he asks. 

“No,” Bruce growls, as he’s walking to the couch. He sets his phone timer for 45 minutes, throws it onto the coffee table, tugs the throw pillow towards him, and then crashes face-down on Clark’s couch. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

Bruce wakes to a strong beam of sunlight hitting his face. He frowns, then sits up. The blanket that has been laid over him (despite Bruce _telling_ Clark he didn’t need one) drops around his waist. Bruce can tell it has been _a lot_ longer than 45 minutes, based on the angle of the sunlight streaming through the window. He checks his phone and scowls— it’s been _two hours_. Bruce sighs. 

After a moment, he stands, feeling very irritated. Bruce spots the note on the coffee table: _‘Sorry, I had to run out. Alfred texted you earlier, asking where you were. I told him you were here, and he turned off your alarm. There’s a sandwich in the fridge, if you want it. Have a good drive back — C’_. He rereads the note three times, each time his eyes get stuck on that ‘C.’ After reading the note the final time, Bruce crumples it and sets it back on the coffee table. He goes to do something else, but ends up smoothing out the note, feeling more than slightly foolish as he does. 

Though Clark is _definitely_ to blame for some of this, it sounds like it was (mostly) Alfred’s doing. And, despite his annoyance, Bruce _does_ feel better after his longer-than-intended nap. With an extreme sense of puzzlement, he wonders, _When did Clark get Alfred’s number?_ He folds up the blanket. Then Bruce grabs his keys, phone, wallet, and heads out. 

He does so without eating the sandwich. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

There’s a bit of traffic as he drives through the city, which is unsurprising for just after peak rush hour. As Bruce idles behind a stream of cars, he can’t help but reflect on this newest, strange encounter with the man of steel (why _does_ he always seem to run into Clark at inappropriate times? More importantly— how can this pattern be _broken?_ ) 

Bruce thinks about his own lack of control, when it comes to Superman, and groans aloud in frustration (he pretends it is at the traffic). _This cannot go on_ , he thinks fiercely, imagining an emergency scenario in which he will _have to_ say no to Clark, to Superman. But **how** is Bruce supposed to do this, when Clark is so… _Clark_? Bruce blinks. 

Someone behind him honks, and Bruce snaps out of it long enough to go through the green light. He stops behind the newest line of cars and thinks of how he _feels_ around Superman, around Clark. His inability to say no to the man. His anxiety around him. The way his smile lights up the room (well, Bruce’s head, at least), and— _oh, **shit**_. 

Bruce thinks about how he feels around Clark, and comes to a startling realization. The last time he'd felt like this was in _high school_ , when he had a crush on Becky Muldoon. So, the _source_ of Bruce’s problem then, is that he **likes** Clark. And damn it, this _cannot_ be happening to him. 

Bruce has _a crush_ on Superman. 

_Superman_ , the man he tried to kill. The man who he _works with_ now. The man who is a living lie detector, and (apparently) listens to Bruce’s heartbeat when he's _worried_ about him. _Well **fuck**_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Becky Muldoon is a **real** character— I found this out because someone posted about it— and the comic strip where Bruce talks about her is HILARIOUS. So here's [the link](https://www.reddit.com/r/DCcomics/comments/aql0m8/batman_the_high_school_years_spoilers_wonder/).
> 
> Also, I couldn't help but picture Bruce listening to some Ellie Goulding during this, for some reason, lol 😈.


	6. Rule VI: Not Everything is Up to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his realization, Bruce does what he does best: he **hides**.
> 
> Unfortunately, his duties as Batman mean that he cannot avoid the league, avoid _Superman_ , forever. And they need Batman for this one: Clark thinks he's found a potential new league member, a _Martian_. Bruce will have to keep them in check, somehow (if only he could do the same with his own heart).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The most important part in making a good lemonade is to use the right ratio of lemon juice, sugar, and water”  
> — _Homemade Lemonade_ , Tip One.

So what _does_ a person do, when they realize that they have a crush on an unkillable force of pure goodness and hope, one that is _literally_ powered by sunlight? What does **Batman** do, when he realizes that he likes _Superman_ — the man that he **most definitely** , in no way, should want _like that_? What does _Bruce_ do, when he realizes that he’s fallen _hard_ (as in head-over-heels and hearts-as-eyes) for Clark, despite their many insurmountable differences: his mortality (Clark’s immortality), their incompatible crime-fighting philosophies (Batman’s fear, Superman’s hope), and their… _complicated_ personal history? 

Bruce avoids him. 

Batman cuts off all contact with Superman. 

Brucie Wayne never even _met_ Clark Kent (on a more-than-superficial level, that is)— and _thank goodness_ for that, or this situation would be even more hellish than it already is. 

Bruce could _cry_ , because of how frustrated he is. He **hates** _feeling things_. In his experience, nothing good has _ever_ come from being _vulnerable_. When he’s vulnerable, people die, they steal his heart, they manipulate him— **they leave**. 

Bruce wants to rip his heart out, wishes that the organ wasn’t necessary for _living_. And that is the **irony** of it all, isn’t it? Human beings have an emotion-fueled _kill switch_ built right into them, at their center. He grinds his teeth and practically wears a path into the cave’s floor, he paces so much. 

Batman goes out on a feverish crusade of do-gooding that strikes _even more_ terror than usual into the hearts of Gotham’s criminals. But Bruce still doesn’t feel _good enough_ for Clark. He will _never_ feel good enough, for him. 

Brucie Wayne leaves a path of drunken distraction in his wake over the next few weeks (but he _does not_ mention Superman, or talk about Clark Kent, or think about the tall, black-haired man from both Kansas and Krypton, the one with the kind, bright blue eyes and winsome smile), and stories of his antics are then woven luridly throughout the pages of Gotham’s gossip magazines, like bedazzled breadcrumbs. 

Alfred, if he notices Bruce’s frenetic energy, chooses not to comment on it. 

And while Bruce as a whole may sometimes struggle with self-doubt, _all three_ aspects of his personality agree on this: they **hate** the stupid fucking human heart, and its illogical, ill-conceived, irresponsible, **insane** , and _impossible_ desires. Bruce will _never_ get Clark Kent, capture Superman’s heart, **or** make Kal El fall in love with him. Because Bruce Wayne, Batman, **and** Brucie Wayne are damaged goods, irreparably so. On top of that, there is too much _history_ between them (despite Clark’s forgiveness) for anything to work out. 

Yet— _yet_ , in spite of all his efforts, Bruce _cannot_ seem to get rid of his feelings. Hasn’t he learned already: he has **always** been terrible at _not feeling_ things. His parents, Dick, Jason— Bruce, if anything, has always felt _too much_. 

For the first time, Bruce thinks he might just understand what it was like for Clark to have his heart impaled by Doomsday’s kryptonite-infused bone spear. It _hurts_. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

The world does not care about Bruce’s, Brucie’s, or Batman’s feelings— _as if it has **ever** cared about anyone’s feelings_, Bruce thinks cynically ( _he’s_ nothing special). So another three weeks— filled with agonizing emotional deliberations that tear through him like Joker’s knives— pass, and the next-scheduled league meeting draws (looms) near. Bruce feels as if he is going into battle. Only, he has mentally prepared himself **more** for this league meeting (for seeing _Clark_ again) than he has for some real-life battles. It is half-hilarious, half-tragic, that something as simple and stupid as a _crush_ can bring Bruce this low. 

The night before the meeting, Bruce runs ten miles on the treadmill, he destroys a pair of boxing gloves, and then he goes out on a four-hour-long patrol— all so that he is exhausted enough to sleep. All so that some of his restless energy is released, so he can be somewhat more collected, for tomorrow. Bruce comes home, showers, and falls into bed. 

When he wakes the following day, Bruce has to suppress the (strong) temptation to simply roll back under his covers and forget everything. But he _can't_ , so Bruce gets out of bed with a quiet, perturbed sigh. He walks over to his closet. As he dresses, Alfred appears. 

He reminds Bruce primly, “Do not forget that you have _guests_ coming over tonight, Sir.” Bruce adjusts his tie in the mirror. _As if I could **forget** that the league— the entire league— will be here_, he thinks, with a sort-of weary amusement. And by ‘the entire league,’ Bruce really means _Clark_. But his inner turbulence is not _Alfred’s_ fault. 

So he says, “Thank you, Al. I won’t.” He frowns slightly, before wiping the expression from his face. Bruce watches as Alfred hesitates, in the mirror’s reflection— this is unlike him. Alfred only hesitates when he thinks that there is something _wrong_ with Bruce. So, it is with a surge of annoyance, and dread, that Bruce has a feeling that he knows _exactly_ what Alfred is going to say to him next. 

“I _do hope_ it will end better than last time, Sir,” Alfred cautiously offers. Bruce blinks— he was _not_ suspecting that. Perhaps he is less _obvious_ about his… feelings than he’d thought. But that will hardly matter around beings with _super senses_. Alfred meets Bruce’s gaze in the mirror, and Bruce has to look away, another grimace on his face. Alfred sighs slightly, and tuts his tongue. He walks away. 

These days, Alfred chooses his battles _wisely_. There is far too much for him and Bruce to fight over— why he continues to at all, Bruce doesn’t know. Most of the time now, he is half-braced for Alfred to finally _leave_ him. 

Bruce misses the old, simple days. Misses feeling like the reason that Alfred stayed with him was because he _cared_ , not that he did it out of some sad, tired sense of **duty**. He swallows, and feels a pang of nerves flow through him. _I do too, Al_ , he thinks wistfully, _I do too_. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

By the time Bruce arrives home from the office later that day, the whole league (sans Batman) has assembled in the cave. He rushes through the front door, throwing a harried wave at Alfred as he passes. Alfred merely nods at his (abrupt) presence; he is busy compiling snacks for the league (which is a serious business, with Barry’s metabolism). Bruce allows himself a micro-pause at the top of the stairs, to gather himself. _You are **not** going to panic_, he lectures himself firmly, _because you aren’t a fucking lovesick teenager_. Pep-talk over, Bruce takes one deep breath in, sets his face, and strides down the stairs like he owns the place— because, after all, _he does_. 

To buy himself time (from getting overwhelmed at **Superman’s** presence), Bruce focuses on removing his suit jacket as he strides across the empty space of the cave floor. He slings it casually over a shoulder, and then diverts his attention to removing his tie. That he nonchalantly drapes around his neck. As Bruce sits heavily in his seat next to Superman— the one the league has saved for him, because they know ( **most of** ) his preferences— he turns his attention to undoing his cuff links. Those he tucks into his shirt pocket. 

Finally, looking up becomes unavoidable. Bruce feels nervous anyway, and reminds himself that he cannot, despite his desire to, avoid Clark or the league forever. _Coward_ , sneers a voice in his head. Bruce silently tells himself to **shut up**. He looks up. Without his notice, the entire league has fallen silent, and is now observing him. Bruce quickly glances around the circle of faces, frowning slightly. He smothers the expression. 

“Hi, Bruce,” Barry says, smiling as if nothing is wrong, as if he _hasn’t_ been avoiding Batman and the cave since the last meeting. As if the Justice League collectively (minus Batman, of course) hasn’t been _missing_ from their make-shift base of operations for the past **five weeks**. Bruce buries his tension, and the hurt-fueled anger that flows through him, deep down. After all, he’s got _other issues_ to deal with here. Victor offers a small wave and Arthur folds his arms over his chest, and nods slightly in his direction. 

Awkwardly, Bruce replies, “Hello. Sorry I’m late, please continue.” He shifts in his seat, so he’s angled towards Diana. She meets his eyes and tilts her head slightly, in acknowledgment. Bruce nods back, and she offers a steady smile in return. Despite everything, Bruce feels a little relieved; if she’s smiling at him, then things must be _okay_ between them. This is wonderful news because Bruce has _missed_ Diana— not that he’ll ever tell her that. But then, does he even really _need to?_

Clark takes a small breath in, and all of Bruce’s attention is abruptly (and unpleasantly) diverted from Diana, and her reassuring smile. He pours his focus into keeping his sanity intact— quite the feat, in front of the man of steel and his unavoidable senses. Bruce steadies his nerves, and turns to face Superman. “Now that everyone’s here,” Clark says, smiling gently at Bruce, “I have some news.” 

Bruce feels like he’s been struck in the face. _Oh, god, his **eyes**_. He has forgotten how _expressive_ Clark’s face is, in the three weeks that he’s been busy avoiding him. Bruce swallows and forces himself to actually fucking listen to what Clark is saying. He feels a rush of irritation, at his inability to maintain a cool, professional distance. It is dangerous, how **distracted** he allows himself to become, because of Superman. Because of Clark. 

“Go on,” Diana says calmly. Her gaze is intent on Clark, something that Bruce is extremely grateful for. _She’d be able to see right through you too, **Batman**_ , Bruce’s inner monologue hisses. Bruce grits his teeth, and clenches his hands into fists beneath the table. _Christ, feelings are the worst_. 

“I think I may have found another potential league member,” Clark says excitedly. For some reason, his eyes— and the eyes of the rest of the league (even _Diana’s_ )— turn to look questioningly at Bruce. He feels unnerved, but not because of Clark, for once. No, his anxiety is for another reason, this time. 

It is simply that Bruce still doesn’t _know_ what he’s done to make the league look at him like he’s the one with all the answers. Like **he’s** the one they should turn to, for advice— have they not seen the mistakes he’s made? Do they not know how _flawed_ he is? _Why is he, quite possibly the worst people-person in existence, the one they all turn to?_ Bruce swallows. Somehow, he manages to make prolonged, intent eye contact with Clark (though it feels as if it _nearly kills_ him). 

“Explain,” he orders. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

“So I finally figured that the… _visions_ had to be coming from somewhere, and I decided to do some research. It turns out that there _is_ a military base there, where I saw it,” Clark concludes enthusiastically, “I think we need to check it out.” 

Bruce takes a moment to look around, and garner what other people’s opinions are. 

Diana looks thoughtful, but **not** like she is considering exactly how _out-of-his-damned-mind_ Clark is. Barry is _eating_ again, so he must not be too concerned. Arthur has leaned back in his chair, and his arms are still crossed over his chest. He looks pensive. As Bruce glances at him, the Atlantean king meets his gaze and raises an eyebrow: ‘how about _that_ , huh?’ It is strange, to be in agreement with Aquaman. Victor’s cyber-eye is flashing red; he’s doing research. 

Somehow, it has fallen to Batman (once again) to be the voice of reason within the league. Bruce sighs. “If no one _else_ is going to mention it, then I **will** ,” he says sarcastically. Diana gives him a warning look, and the others (even Victor) turn to him, curious and hesitant expressions on their faces. Ah. That’s right— they’re not used to Bruce being _reasonable_. He’s usually a self-sure, caustic _bastard_ around them; the league have Clark to thank, for Batman’s current distraction. “How do we know that this… _Martian_ is even real, and not just a mind-control device or trap created by the military, or a villain?” 

“I _do_ think that we should proceed with caution,” Diana agrees, glancing between Bruce’s tense expression and Clark’s sincere one. “But, ultimately, I believe what we do next should be up to Superman— I trust his judgement.” Clark narrows his eyes thoughtfully, and Bruce feels a prickle of irritation at the way his heartbeat speeds up slightly, at that look. _Goddamned stupid **heart**_. 

“It doesn’t _feel_ like anything’s off,” Clark offers, tapping his temple. Bruce sighs again. 

“That’s _wonderful_ news. But feelings are not enough to go forward on, Superman,” he says, pausing for a breath. This will be difficult to say, but it _must_ be said. Bruce continues: “This is, potentially, the United States military after you. What happened between Luthor and- and _us_ — between you and I…” Bruce swallows, “that would be _nothing_ compared to what the U.S. military could do, if they have an interest in capturing you— or if someone else does.” 

The league descends into silence after Bruce’s statement. He keeps his eyes down on the table, and feels an almost insurmountable urge to disappear. But he ignores it. Superman’s— _Clark’s_ — safety is far more important than Bruce’s personal comfort (that’s another reason why he will _never_ know that Bruce is in— that Bruce **cares** for him). However, this emotional stalemate, of sorts, cannot go on forever. 

Bruce steels himself, and looks up. Clark is giving him an intense look, but there is understanding written in his eyes. “I… _appreciate_ your concern, Bruce. But I— _we_ — will be more careful, now. Besides, I think things are **different** than last time, don’t you?” _Oh, you have no idea_ , Bruce thinks mirthlessly. _If only he’d been in love with Clark then— all this could have been avoided_. Bruce nearly laughs, at that. But he doesn’t, because then he’d have to explain _why_ he is laughing, and that isn’t going to happen. 

“Since you seem to be so set on doing this, let me _state my opinion_ one last time **before** we go galivanting off anywhere,” Bruce snaps. “I think that this would prove to be a needlessly-dangerous mission, and that it is almost certainly a trap.” A person might _logically_ assume that Superman has learned to be more careful by now— but _apparently_ this is not the case. 

Clark sighs, and runs a hand through his hair— he looks frustrated. Bruce grits his teeth, thinking, _That makes two of us_. It feels as if Clark is _trying_ to drive Batman insane, only the ( ~~funny~~ infuriating) thing is, he doesn’t **know** that that’s what he’s doing. And it will **stay** that way. 

Diana looks far too amused, from where she’s sitting back, watching their exchange. Arthur has a smirk on his face— one that Bruce would like to wipe off **with his fist**. But he won’t, because he is _trying_ to be better (he also recognizes that a large source of his current frustration is sitting beside him, and is named Clark Joseph Kent). For the nth time, Bruce curses his heart, his feelings, his _weakness_. But, at least in this, he is not alone: _feeling things_ is pretty universal, after all. 

“I have a suggestion,” Flash pipes up. Bruce turns towards him, and dials back his glare when Flash shrinks down in his seat— he sometimes forgets how _young_ Barry is. 

“Sure. Go ahead, Flash,” Clark says. 

Barry swallows. His gaze flicks between Clark and Diana, before landing on Bruce. “Why don’t the three of you— Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman— do the mission, then?” he asks. 

Bruce feels a wave of overwhelming existential dread, at Barry’s words. This is the _last_ thing he needs right now. Bruce can visualize _so many ways_ for this mission to (potentially) go wrong; most of them **are not** caused by Bruce's infatuation with his colleague, either. Silence blankets the league, and Bruce wants to scream at his current level of frustration. He _also_ doesn’t want to admit that Flash’s idea is a… decent tactical move (despite his intense initial reaction). 

However— feelings aside— Bruce **is still** legitimately concerned that this is a trap. 

“I mean,” Barry continues nervously, “not much can get past _you three_ , right? And you’ve worked well together before, so Ijustthoughtthat—" 

“Barry,” Diana interrupts gently, before he can get any more out of hand, “that _is_ a good suggestion.” 

Flash blushes slightly, and looks pleased. Wonder Woman steeples her hands, and doesn’t say anything more. 

After a moment, she looks inquiringly at Clark, and Bruce. Bruce grimaces. He does not want to do this… but now Clark is looking thoughtful too, like he _also_ might agree to Barry’s suggestion. Bruce nearly groans. “What do you think, Clark, Bruce?” Diana asks. 

Bruce frowns. _He cannot think of a way to get out of this…_ “I _still_ think that this is a terrible idea, and that we’re running head-on into some kind of set-up— but then, what do _I know_ about strategy,” he remarks bitterly. Just because he’s lost doesn’t mean that he won’t go down swinging. Diana’s raised eyebrow offers a sharp rebuke, but she doesn’t reply verbally to Bruce’s bitterness. Instead, she turns to Clark. 

Clark looks thoughtful, and then tries to meet Bruce’s gaze. But Bruce stubbornly averts his eyes (he _refuses_ to be persuaded by _puppy dog eyes_ , of all things). “I agree with Diana,” Clark says, sounding slightly apologetic. Bruce swallows his immense dread; his heart is pounding. The league has turned to him. Feeling supremely annoyed, and slightly resigned, Bruce thinks bitterly, _guess there’s no choice now_. He has always **hated** having his hand forced. 

“Fine,” he adds stiffly, after a moment. 

Bruce ignores the butterflies that Clark’s contented smile send through him; he has a terribly-certain suspicion that somehow— one way or another— this _will not_ end well. He swallows a bitter sigh, and turns back to the league. If they are going to do this, they will **not** go in unprepared and without a plan. It is time for Batman to start strategizing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are reading "Blessed..." I AM UPDATING THAT NEXT! I just couldn't get this fic out of my head for a bit. Thank you for your patience.


	7. Rule VII: Allow Space for Personal Growth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trinity go on the mission to rescue the Martian. Bruce _cannot possibly_ imagine it ending well. But Batman will be there to save their asses when it **doesn't**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Hard lemons have thicker skin and yield less juice”  
> — _Homemade Lemonade_ , Tip Two.

Before Bruce will allow anyone to go off on an ill-conceived mission, he ~~requests~~ demands time to do more research so that when things _do_ go to shit, he’ll have some idea of how to save their asses. He has Clark give him a summary of the research he’s done so far. Then he asks Superman to describe his… interactions with the Martian (who, if he _is_ real, is a telepath). Bruce can hardly imagine a worse scenario. _Damned if it’s true, damned if it’s false_ , he thinks grimly. 

After this, Bruce pulls aside Diana. “Can your lasso neutralize telepathy, or the effects of mind-control?” he asks her, when Clark’s not there. ~~Bruce has~~ **The world** has just gotten Clark back, and he _will not_ allow the military to wreck Superman’s return. Not so easily, at least. Diana frowns consideringly at her metallic, faintly-glowing golden lasso. Bruce swallows his unease— Batman and the _truth_ do not mix well. Also, magic will **always** make him nervous— old dogs, new tricks. Bruce admits that it’s because magic is _unexplainable_ and uncontrollable— the _worst_ combination for a paranoid freak like Batman. 

“I… am unsure,” she finally says, hesitantly. 

Bruce nearly groans. He removes the cowl, and runs a frustrated hand through his hair. Bruce turns the chair away from the computer, and faces her. Diana looks as worried as Bruce is _pretending_ he’s not. So perhaps Batman will _not_ have to be the voice of reason on this mission, which is reassuring (Bruce feels alarmed when he’s the moral compass of anything, these days). “Find out, if you can. Please,” he growls. Then he spins around, and continues his research. 

When Diana leaves, Bruce remotely opens one of the cave’s vaults. He stands, feeling sick to his stomach, and rides the lift down to the darkest levels of the cave. Bruce flicks on the emergency flood lights, inputs the password, does the retina scan, and then the fingerprint scan. 

The steel and concrete reinforced box appears from inside its hiding spot in the cave’s rough-hewn floor. Bruce opens the reinforced titanium safe inside it. His heartbeat’s fast, and Bruce takes a shuddering breath to calm himself; it wouldn’t do to have _Clark_ fly here because he’s worried about Bruce (though how this is possible _at all_ Bruce still doesn’t know). “Goddamned idiot,” he mutters to himself. Bruce swallows, and retrieves one, small glowing green chunk of kryptonite. He carefully averts his eyes from _the spear_ — but it isn’t enough. Bruce feels contaminated already. 

_This time it’s different_ , he reminds himself, _this time, it’s to keep **Clark** safe_, and that’s an entire world’s-worth of difference. Still, Bruce catches one good look of the spear, and he shudders. _Never again_ , he thinks, feeling as if _he’s_ the one being poisoned by the evil rock’s radiation. Bruce stows the kryptonite in the lead-lined box he built for the belt’s compartments. 

He locks the safe, makes sure the safety measures on the box are reactivated, and turns off the lights. This time, he walks up to the higher levels of the cave in the dark. But it feels as if a faint, pulsing, warm green glow lights his way the entire time. He’s not hated himself this much for a long time. 

****

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“Obviously, we’ll have to go in at night,” Bruce says. “Ideally, we should arrive in the early morning, Mountain Daylight Time— fatigue will be highest, and we’d have the best chances of having a relatively inexperienced set of guards and personnel. Also, it’ll be easier to enter and leave undetected,” Bruce says calmly. He, Clark, and Diana are gathered around the monitors in the cave, with a blown-up satellite image (courtesy of Batman’s hacking abilities) of McCallum base, where the Martian is supposedly located. 

The base itself is in Colorado— inside the 1,729 square miles of Pike and San Isabel National Forests. Even more specifically, it’s located within a densely-forested, unnamed valley, tucked away into the cliff face. It is, Bruce admits grudgingly, a _supremely_ good location for a top-secret, alien-containing U.S. military base. If there is an alien there. If it’s not an elaborate, Superman-catching trap. Even if it is, the location’s still one _Bruce_ would use for a top-secret base, if he were in charge of such things. 

“Bruce?” Clark asks. He lays a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, and Bruce jumps. His heart’s pounding like a hummingbird’s. But Diana and Clark’s concerned looks snap him out of his thoughts. 

“What?” Bruce barks. He instantly feels a sour weight in the pit of his stomach for _yelling_ at Clark. Clark blinks, looking a bit taken aback. Bruce scowls again. 

“He asked you when you wanted to leave,” Diana interjects. There is a hint of reproach in her tone, but it is gentle. Bruce appreciates her discretion. He nods. 

“Right, sorry… I still need to do more research. Give it— let’s say a week,” Bruce mutters. He’s distracted by the satellite images again. _If he can just enhance one, at least a bit more, then he’ll have a clear view of the main entrance…_ Diana clears her throat. Bruce blinks, and looks up. Clark has an amused smile on his face, and even Diana’s exasperation is more put-on than real; they _both_ know how Batman gets when there’s a mission to plan. Bruce sighs, and spins the chair completely around— to show that they’ve got his whole attention. 

Diana laughs, and amusement colors her voice as she says, “That timeline works for me. Let us know what you uncover, Bruce.” Bruce nods. His eyes shift to Clark. 

“Yeah, same here… when _do_ you want to meet?” he asks. Bruce narrows his eyes, thinking. There’s a two hour time difference between Gotham and Colorado, and the flight will be at least two hours and fifteen minutes if Bruce doesn’t push it— even the Batjet, one of the world’s fastest, has its limits. 

“Be here in the cave at 22:00, a week from now,” he says decisively. Bruce turns around— he has more work to do, and he’d like to discourage post-meeting socialization (which Diana _and_ Clark are fans of) as much as possible; though, Bruce _really_ wouldn’t mind so much if Clark absolutely had to talk to him for longer. 

“Alright, 22:00,” Clark confirms. He pats Bruce on the shoulder again (nearly giving Bruce heart palpitations) and floats away. Bruce must look… unsettled, or something, because Diana pauses and stares at him for a moment, before stepping forward. 

“Take care of yourself, Bruce. Until then,” she says. Bruce just grunts in return— she should know better than to expect a reply when he’s _working_. Diana lays a soft hand on his shoulder— the same shoulder that _Clark_ touched— then walks away. Bruce is left alone to his planning. He ignores the slightly-lonely feeling that permeates the cave; Batman does not have time for _loneliness_. 

****

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Bruce reluctantly cuts patrol short the night before the mission. He’s been _busy_ for the past week, both with research for their mission (it’s not every day that Bruce leads a break-in into a highly-secure military compound) and with laying down the law in Gotham. He doesn’t have the resources (i.e. Dick, Barbara, _Jason_ ) anymore— so when Batman leaves Gotham, he leaves it _unprotected_. It’s at times like this that Bruce really focuses on putting the fear of god (or the law) into Gotham’s criminal underbelly— that way the fear will last longer, and his absence is less likely to be noticed. 

However, as Alfred so _helpfully_ points out, Bruce is only human. And while he’s been (somewhat) better about taking care of himself since the league formed (since Diana, for some reason, started _paying attention_ ), Bruce still tends to work himself to the bone. And, as is often the case, Alfred is _right_ about this. Bruce does need to be fully-functioning for tomorrow’s mission, which means he needs sleep. So Bruce heads in early from patrol, showers, and actually finds that he _is_ tired enough to go to— and stay— asleep. It seems that sometimes miracles _do_ happen— just not when Bruce really _needs_ them to. Pity, that. 

****

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Bruce finds life the next day hellishly _boring_. Especially when there’s a mission he’s looking forward to, playing ‘Brucie’ for _hours_ feels suffocating— Bruce daydreams about killing ‘Brucie’ Wayne off, for good. _Would it be poison? A jealous lover? An overdose? Drunk driving incident? Or a mishap while he’s practicing his latest extreme-sport obsession?_ But like the _other_ times that he’s thought (fantasized) about it, Bruce concludes that (for now), it wouldn’t be useful in the long-run. Batman, and Bruce, are all about long-term plans, and eking out as much _practicality_ from them as possible— regardless of personal comfort, or how Bruce _feels_ about it. 

He stares at the slowly and softly ticking wall clock on his office’s door. _Three more hours until I can leave_ , he thinks. Bruce sighs, and lets his head fall atop his desk with a groan. After a moment, he picks himself up, grabs his pen, and places a stack of unread paperwork in front of him. _It’s about what needs to be done, not what you **want** to be done_, he reminds himself, grimacing. Bruce’s eyes flick through the first page of paperwork, and then the next one. And the next one. 

****

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22:00 arrives— after what feels like an eternity— and Bruce (Batman) paces the cave floor in front of the jet, his black cape flowing silently out after him. He’s half-heartedly re-checking the jet’s underbelly and landing gear for the third time. Diana’s off to the side, making small-talk with Alfred, who’s come to send them off. Clark is still nowhere to be seen, and it makes Bruce feel jumpy in an annoyed, heart-flutteringly worried way that _irritates_ his higher reasoning capabilities immensely. At the last second ( _literally_ , Bruce checks the cowl’s built-in clock), Clark sweeps in down the stairs and comes to an abrupt stop in front of Bruce. Bruce, despite his earlier anger, feels breathless at the _scene_ Superman makes, even if he looks a little harried at the moment. Clark’s cape hangs regally behind him— he looks like an old Italian renaissance painting of a Greek god, frozen in action. He lifts an arm to sweep back his hair, and the spell on Bruce is broken. 

“You’re _late_ , Superman,” Batman growls irritably. Clark turns self-frustrated eyes to Batman. Diana walks towards them, followed by Alfred. 

“I know! And I’m sorry— there was a fire,” Clark explains, sighing. Bruce feels his irritation softening, and grimaces. _Goddamned idiot!_ Thankfully, Diana arrives. Clark looks up and smiles sheepishly at her. “Sorry I’m late. Hello, Diana. Alfred,” he says politely (of _course_ he’d say ‘hello’ first, unlike **Bruce** ). 

“Hello, Kal,” Diana says. Alfred nods primly. For some reason, they turn to Batman. 

Bruce scowls. “Well then, since we’ve wasted enough time— hop in. Unless you’re flying?” he half-asks, turning to Clark. Superman looks unsure for a moment, and his eyes flick to the jet. Bruce and Alfred share an amused look. 

“I’ll hitch a ride,” Clark says. Bruce nods, and gestures to the already-released gangplank. 

“Good luck, Sirs, Miss,” Alfred says. Bruce glances back, and gives Alfred a nod. Diana smiles, and Clark gives an odd half-wave. They enter the jet and Bruce swiftly prepares it, and its passengers, for takeoff. “You’re cleared for takeoff, Master Bruce,” Alfred’s steady voice says over the radio, “Penny-one out.” Bruce glances at Clark and Diana to make sure they’re seated (though this safety precaution isn’t strictly _needed_ , for them). Then he activates the hangar doors, flicks on the auto-nav and the guidance systems. He eases them forwards. With a high-pitched rumble, the jet gains speed and lifts off. 

****

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The flight ends up being as long as Bruce had predicted. Thanks to Alfred’s silent assistance, and the plane’s high-tech nature, he only has to sit at the controls and pay them minimal attention to keep them moving smoothly through the air. So most of their flight is spent re-hashing the _really_ important points about the mission. When they’re fifteen minutes out, Alfred pings his cowl, and Bruce takes over manual controls. He activates the radar-scrambling programs and engages engine-stealth mode. Clark comes up to his side and peers out of the windshield. Bruce will use his keen eyes to help guide the jet to a safe (and discreet) landing. 

“I see a clear spot,” Clark says, after a bit of hovering. He guides Bruce down until they’re close enough for the machinery to do the rest. After they exit the jet, Bruce activates the cowl’s night vision; Clark and Diana gain a ghostly green glow. They stand in silence for a moment. Bruce takes the opportunity to look around— Clark is right that this is a clearing (but it’s not human-made). It’s probably a meadow, though it’s difficult to tell in the dark. 

“How far out are we, Superman?” Batman growls (he’s activated the cowl’s voice scrambler). Superman glances back at the plane and then silently floats about ten feet up into the air. It sends a little thrill through Bruce— one he quickly suppresses; he’s _working_ right now, and he will not put his colleague’s lives in danger by losing focus. 

Clark lands in front of Batman and Wonder Woman. “We’re two miles out,” he says, glancing behind him, “and the farthest-out patrol, from what I could tell, is a half-mile away. Groups of three or four soldiers, in Jeeps.” Bruce nods. That is good news— he hadn’t expected to be able to land this close to the base. 

“Shall we?” Diana says. She crouches, and is abruptly _gone_ from Bruce’s sight. The infrared makes out Diana’s heat signature, clinging to the top of a tree. Clark is still hovering by his side. 

“Want a lift?” he asks. Bruce scowls. 

“Only to the tree line,” he says. Superman nods, and steps forward. 

****

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Clark is hovering six feet above Bruce, two trees ahead. It’s comical, how he’s hiding behind the top of the pine tree— like a kid playing hide-and-seek— except Bruce is too focused on the activity going on upon the ground to fully reflect on his _amusement_. Diana is crouched in the tree to Bruce’s immediate left. Bruce himself is crouched on a branch, one hand on the trunk for stability. He’s brought out a pair of binoculars and is studying the main doorway of the base. They’ve been here for 45 minutes, observing. 

Another Jeep-full of soldiers rumbles to a stop in front of the bulky doors and the check-in booth there. After a brief moment, the doors swing open and the vehicle putters through. Two minutes later, they close. Bruce scowls. He folds up the binoculars and mutters, “Superman.” Clark jerks his head around and looks at Bruce. Bruce gestures at himself. Clark nods. Moments later, he’s hovering mid-air in front of Batman. Seconds after this, a slight jolt goes through the branch as Wonder Woman lands smoothly on it, a few feet away from Batman. 

“Is there no second door?” Diana asks immediately. Bruce grimaces. 

“It appears not. I had hoped that there was, and they just didn’t advertise it— this appears to be the only way in… unless,” Bruce says, turning to Superman. Clark obligingly turns around to scan the building and its surroundings. After a moment, Clark gives a shake of his head. “No secondary entrance. Okay.” Bruce frowns, thinking. Diana looks down at the door too. 

“When is the next patrol?” she asks Clark. Superman cocks his head and gets a distant look in his eyes. 

“Maybe ten, fifteen minutes out,” he replies. Diana nods. She squints at the road again. Bruce looks between her and Superman. Then Diana turns to Bruce and Clark. 

“I may have a solution,” she says matter-of-factly. 

****

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“Are you sure about this?” Superman asks nervously, from where he’s hovering inches behind Batman, ready to scoop him up. 

“For Christ’s— _yes_ , Superman. I’m _sure I’ll be able to handle it_. Now get ready, they’re almost here,” Bruce hisses. He’s nervous, and it’s only half because Clark is going to _hold him_ ; he’s never gone at super-speed before (not even when he and Clark were fighting), so Bruce _doesn’t know_ how he’ll handle it. Clark mutters something behind him, but Bruce doesn’t catch it. He’s too busy mentally rehearsing his next movements. Diana gives the signal. Bruce takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and holds it. 

Ten seconds later, he opens his eyes as Clark sets him down on the road. Then Superman is gone. The roar of the engine is loud above Bruce, and the smell of exhaust eye-watering. Batman slithers forward until he’s under the Jeep. He flips around, grabs ahold of the undersides of the vehicle’s foot platforms, and braces his legs against the back of the car. Thirty seconds later, Bruce’s muscles have started trembling slightly, but he grits his teeth and _holds on_. The car rumbles, and moves forward. Bruce angles his head slightly so he can watch the ground pass beneath him; he’s memorized the layout of the building and keeps track of their slow progress through the space. 

Exactly four minutes and thirty seconds later, Bruce lets go, muscles shaking and fingers burning. He allows himself to pant exactly once and then starts to sit up. “Need a hand?” Superman asks. Diana’s already hopped off his back and is moving away. Bruce accepts the hand and he’s (gently) dragged to his feet. He shakes out his muscles and takes a look around. They’re in a hallway, outside the parking lot. Diana stands against the wall, glancing back and forth. Bruce and Clark hustle to her side and duck around the corner. They hide behind a parked car. 

“Where to next?” Bruce asks. Clark squints in the middle distance, trying to figure it out. 

****

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Bruce has Clark rush ahead of them with the scrambling device he’s brought. It buys them a 90-second window to get to the next security camera. It’s nowhere near perfect— they don’t know if they’ll encounter any soldiers or personnel— but Batman has planned a trip to the main surveillance office anyway. Clark flies ahead and Bruce and Diana dash silently to the next camera. They do it twice more before slamming around the corner, out of sight. Bruce takes a few deep breaths and Diana tucks a strand of fly-a-way hair behind her ear. Across the hall is the locked door that leads to the stairwell that leads _down_ to where (supposedly) the Martian is being kept. The three of them slink across the hall and Superman tugs the door open with a gentle crack. 

****

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There’s a thick, reinforced bunker door in front of them. Bruce frowns, because there’s no way to do this _quietly_. Superman punches through the concrete doorframe until the edge of the door is exposed. He braces his feet against the smooth floor and _pushes_ the door with a great screeching. Bruce grimaces again. Diana moves forward, wraps her lasso around the top corner of the door, and _pulls_. Bruce stands to the side, keeping a lookout for any incoming hostiles. 

Miraculously, nobody interferes. Bruce suspects that it may be because it’s mostly scientists working down here, and even the United States military can’t pay them enough to stay in a bunker past two a.m. Clark and Diana place the door to the side with a dull, echoing thud. Bruce steps to their side and they advance cautiously through the short hall and into a monitor room, of some kind. Bruce is intrigued by the information on the screens— x-rays of something _not human_ , along with medical files, and technological analyses. He tears his gaze away from the computers, making a mental note to hack them later, when Diana gasps. “Hera,” she murmurs. 

In front of them— trapped inside some sort of mechanical contraption— is a green alien with long, wiry limbs and a vaguely tear drop-shaped head. It— he— they?— are _tall_ , though it’s hard to tell how much, given that they’re held upright by the machine. Bruce swallows, coming to a standstill. He feels very _unnerved_. In spite of Superman’s claims, despite the fact that Bruce _knows_ that aliens, Amazons, and meta-humans exist, it is still something else to **see** that there’s another alien on Earth. He’s only _human_ , after all. 

Superman strides forward, a grim, determined look on his face— he actually looks _upset_ , and Bruce can count on one hand how many times he’s seen Superman get truly angry— and over to the control panel. He pushes down the levers and the machine quietly hums. It releases the alien, who stumbles forward, blinking his _orange_ eyes. Bruce swallows hard, and takes a half-step back. Diana glances at him, and Bruce sees she has one hand rested on her waist, just above the faintly-glowing lasso. He swallows his unease and walks forward. 

Superman helps the alien up, and they walk slowly away from the machine, stopping in front of Batman and Wonder Woman. Clark steps back. The alien turns stiffly to look at Bruce and Diana. Bruce feels a thrill of electric tension flow through him. 

****

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About a minute passes in total silence. Superman now stands to Bruce’s left. For once, Bruce doesn’t begrudge himself for feeling _safer_ next to Clark. The alien blinks. He takes a deep breath and stands taller. Bruce suspects that the machine had been doing something _else_ to him, as he looks much better now. Despite Bruce’s extreme unease, he admits that (depending on what the Martian’s _true_ motives are) it’s good that they’ve rescued him. 

_“My name is J’ohn J’onzz, from Mars… and I thank you for your rescue”_ , says a deep, smooth voice in Bruce’s head. He starts, and inhales sharply. Diana and Bruce exchange a look. Clark seems like he’s experienced this before, or at least _expected_ it. 

Superman nods. “It was our pleasure, J’ohn. And I must apologize for your introduction to Earth’s culture… not all of us are like this,” he says. J’ohn nods. He looks at Bruce, and Diana. Bruce fights to keep his face neutral, and doesn’t even want to think about what Batman’s heartrate must sound like to Superman, right now. 

_“I have made the acquaintance of Superman before, but I do not know you”_ , the Martian says telepathically. Bruce frowns. _It doesn’t feel like an invasion, and yet— yet, he cannot **imagine** something more horrifying than someone penetrating his mind, stealing his secrets, learning what makes him who he is_. 

“I am Wonder Woman, of Themyscira,” Diana says. 

Bruce swallows. “Batman, of Gotham,” he says tersely. The Martian nods. 

_“Perhaps you would be more at ease if I were to change forms”_ , he says. Then he shifts, and appears a bit more humanoid. He now wears a long, blue cape with red straps, blue shorts, and blue shoes. Bruce, despite himself, steps back in surprise. This earns him a concerned look from Clark. The Martian moves forward, and holds his hand out. Clark shakes it with no hesitation, Diana after a second’s, and then J’ohn is approaching Bruce. He makes no move to shake J’ohn’s hand. 

“Don’t take it personally, J’ohn, he doesn’t trust anyone,” Clark interjects hurriedly. 

J’ohn drops his hand, and makes no outward sign that he’s offended. _Good_ , Bruce thinks, _because that’s not about to change anytime soon_. “A wise policy,” J’ohn remarks. And the strange thing is, his _speaking_ voice sounds nearly identical to his **other** one. Bruce blinks. 

Diana steps forward. “Perhaps,” she says, “but I’m afraid conversations about our personal preferences will have to wait.” Bruce remembers then that they still have to _get out_ of the base. Oh, this is wonderful. 

“I shall follow your lead,” J’ohn says calmly. Bruce suppresses a sigh. For an unknown entity, and potential threat, he sure _sounds_ sincere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I know, the name (or location) of the Secret McSecrety™ military base was never **disclosed** in _Justice League_ , so I based its location off of the geography— it seemed like it could be in Colorado, so that's where I put it! The park is [real](https://www.google.com/search?q=Pike+and+San+Isabel+National+Forests&ie=&oe=).
> 
> Dialogue stolen from _Justice League_ series (you'll know it when you see it). Also, as you'll see, I updated it so it's 7/10 chapters. I have a (rough) plan to end it then. We'll see if I can follow it.


	8. Rule VIII: Acknowledge Mistakes, Do Not Repeat Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rescue mission goes off (surprisingly) without a hitch. Bruce, Clark, Diana, and J'ohn make their way back to the Batcave. But, just because the _mission_ went well doesn't mean that things **after it** will. Bruce should have had someone teach J'ohn sarcasm...
> 
> In other words, some _things_ are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “For best flavor, use freshly squeezed lemon juice from real lemons, not store bought bottled lemon juice”  
> — _Homemade Lemonade_ , Tip Three.

“You’re terrifying sometimes, you know that right, Batman?” Superman says from the doorway. They’ve just broken into the security camera monitoring room (J’ohn phased through the door and then Batman used a sedative capsule to incapacitate the guard). Covering their digital tracks is the last task they need to complete before leaving the base. 

“We’ve got work to do,” Bruce replies harshly (he knows Clark meant it to be _a joke_ , but it still **hurts** ). He reaches into the belt and withdraws a USB flash drive— a relic from when Barbara still _talked_ to him. Bruce inserts it into the computer, then plugs in the decoder. After a minute or so, he’s in. The others have come to stand in a loose ring around Bruce. 

“Can we do anything?” Diana asks. 

Bruce firmly reminds himself that this is a _team effort_. He doesn’t _have to_ do everything himself. Bruce puts the security camera footage onto the screens. “Let me know if we’re visible at any time,” he says tersely. 

“There!” Clark says, after about a minute. 

Bruce pauses the footage, and peers at the screen Clark’s pointing to. There is the barest hint of his own cape in the bottom corner. _Damn_. Bruce loops the footage on top of it. He presses play again but nothing else comes up. Bruce initiates the spyware installation and unplugs his devices. “We’re done here,” he says. 

They leave the room and make their way out of the base. 

Once they’re outside, Clark _insists_ on carrying him to the jet. Dawn is coming, and their luck _will_ run out if the jet is seen, so Batman (reluctantly) acquiesces. Diana also accepts a lift (from the Martian). Bruce would worry about him _dropping_ her, except that Diana is _Diana_ — she’d be okay. 

Bruce stands stiffly on Clark’s feet. His annoyance almost cancels out the butterflies in his stomach (this is _much worse_ than that short ride earlier). “Everything alright?” Clark asks. Ah. That’s right. Bruce has momentarily _forgotten_ Clark’s annoying habit of **listening in**. 

“I’m **fine** ,” Bruce grumbles, “just don’t like flying.” 

Clark hums behind him, and doesn’t mention the fact that Bruce _flew them here_. “I’m not gonna drop you, Batman,” Superman says, grip on Bruce’s waist tightening just a bit. It sends Bruce’s heart into a flutter. He takes a breath and composes himself. Better Clark think he’s nervous than find out the _truth_. 

“I _know_ that,” Bruce says impatiently, “but I prefer being inside a plane. It’s a bit _alarming_ when you can see the ground.” 

“I’ll make it fast then,” Clark says. 

Bruce sighs. “Please do.” 

****

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Alfred offers to take the controls for their return flight, so Bruce takes the opportunity, and leaves the cockpit. He makes his way back to the others and sits next to Diana. “You have questions,” J’ohn says, after Bruce is seated. Clark leans forward, frowning slightly. Diana appears neutral. 

Bruce nods— even _if_ the Martian wasn’t already in his head, it would be obvious that **Batman** is the kind of guy to _always_ have questions. “I do. You understand why I might be suspicious when a colleague says he’s been in _telepathic_ contact with an ali— with an unknown being,” Bruce says. 

J’ohn nods serenely. _He’s probably gathered as much from ‘reading’ Batman, however he’s done it_. “Ask me what you wish to know,” J’ohn answers. 

Bruce looks at Diana. She stands, lasso glowing brightly in her hands, and crosses the plane. She stops in front of J’ohn. “I am unsure how familiar you are with magic, but the golden perfect has no scientific explanation. None can lie under its power. Do you consent?” she asks. J’ohn gives the lasso one glance. He nods. Diana wraps it around J’ohn’s wrist. They turn to Bruce. 

Bruce asks, “What is your name, where are you from, and why have you come to Earth?” 

J’ohn blinks his (alarming) orange eyes, and replies calmly, “My name is J’ohn J’onzz, from Mars, and I came to Earth because I am the last of my kind— there was nothing left for me on my home planet.” At this, Clark looks as if he’s going to say something. But he doesn’t. Bruce blinks. _He sometimes forgets that he’s not the only orphan here_. Bruce looks at Diana, who nods. 

“What do you wish to do on Earth?” Bruce asks. 

At this, J’ohn sighs, slouching slightly. There is a beat of silence, before he answers, “I am _tired_ of being alone. I just wish to start over, to have a life again.” Bruce swallows. J’ohn’s words feel like they freeze something inside him, and despite the danger of it, Bruce _identifies_ with the **loneliness** he hears in the Martian’s voice. He glances surreptitiously around, observing that they _all_ do; the league began as a group of misfits, after all. 

“Have you exerted control over any of us?” he asks. 

J’ohn shakes his head vehemently. “No,” he says. Bruce nods. Diana removes the lasso. Clark smiles, looking relieved. J’ohn smiles softly back. Bruce sighs. Diana frowns at him, and he scowls back. Just because he’s passed the basic safety tests doesn’t mean that J’ohn’s _trustworthy_. Bruce stands. 

“I’m going to check the navigation system,” he says. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

When they land (just past 6 a.m.), Alfred is waiting for them. Bruce knows that league missions make him nervous; Alfred _worries_ about him— things are no longer quite the same since meta-humans have appeared. He has a tray with three coffees. Bruce walks down the gangplank and strides forward. He takes a mug and says, with feeling, “Thank you, Alfred.” 

Alfred nods, and gives him a once-over. “But of course, Sir. Was your mission successful?” Bruce gestures back at the plane, and takes a sip of coffee. Clark and Diana exit the plane, and J’ohn steps out after them. Alfred blinks, but does not lose his calm; he too has had to adjust to a new normal since the league formed. He turns to Bruce, eyebrow raised. “I see it was,” Alfred says softly, just for Bruce. Batman allows a small, amused smile to cross his face. The others approach. 

Clark looks surprised that Alfred’s still awake and that there’s coffee. He takes one anyway. Diana smiles appreciatively, and grabs her cup. “Thank you, Alfred,” she says. J’ohn blinks. Diplomatically, Alfred tucks the empty tray under and an arm and turns to the (newest) alien. 

“I’m afraid I wasn’t sure if the mission would be a success— I would have made more coffee otherwise. Alfred Pennyworth, pleased to make your acquaintance,” he says. J’ohn takes a step closer, and Bruce can’t help the protective twinge of alarm that goes through him— if there was ever anyone Bruce would **die** for, it is Alfred. He avoids actually stepping between J’ohn and his butler, if only just. The two shake hands. 

“J’ohn J’onzz,” the Martian says. 

Alfred gestures around. “Welcome to the heart of the madness, J’ohn. I think you’ll fit in nicely,” he says, glancing sidelong at Bruce. Clark and Diana laugh. Bruce sighs long-sufferingly. Alfred pats him on the shoulder, paying no mind to the fact that Bruce is encased in Kevlar armor (among other things) and can’t feel it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading off to bed. Master Bruce,” he says. 

“Night, Al,” Bruce says, with fond exasperation— Alfred _knows_ his policy on doing anything domestic in front of the league, so he’s doing it on purpose. Alfred gathers the tray, their empty cups, and walks out of sight. Bruce waits for a moment, then turns away from the stairs. “Let’s go,” he orders. He doesn’t wait for the others to follow. 

After an abbreviated tour of the cave, Bruce gets J’ohn a blanket, pillow, and pulls out his cot. Bruce is unsure if the Martian _needs_ to sleep, but he won’t leave him in the cave with nothing, if he does. He offers Diana and Clark the guest rooms, but they turn him down. Bruce says that he’ll contact them later for a league meeting, and to stay tuned. Clark glances hesitantly between Bruce and J’ohn as he leaves. Diana offers J’ohn a smile and turns to Bruce. 

“Be nice,” she says firmly. 

Bruce rolls his eyes behind the cowl. “I’ll see you later,” he says. Diana nods, and heads upstairs. Bruce turns to J’ohn. They’re alone. Bruce looks at the Martian and feels lost for words. He notes distantly that this is one of the stranger things he’s experienced as Batman. J’ohn looks about as lost as Bruce feels. Bruce frowns. 

Finally, he says, “Stay in the cave and don’t touch anything. There’s an intercom on the wall by the cot.” But this is not _kind_. Bruce imagines what Clark, Diana, and _Alfred_ would think of his behavior, if they were here. _Time to try again_. He amends, “It’s not that I distrust you—” 

“But you do,” J’ohn interrupts. His voice lacks any emotion, which is frustrating. _It’d be easier to have this conversation if he could **read** him_. 

Bruce swallows, and resists the urge to gnash his teeth. “I do,” he admits. Honesty is the only option here, but Bruce hates being reminded of that. “However, it’s not just because of _you_. I distrust most people— it’s my job. The others seem to like you though, so I’ll give you a chance, J’ohn.” 

J’ohn actually _smiles_ , and Bruce feels a little bad. But considering his… _track record_ with aliens, this conversation is going well. “I shall do my best to earn your trust, Batman,” the Martian says gravely. Bruce nods. 

“Thank you. I’ll be back later, and so will the others. Comm. if you need something,” Bruce says stiffly. J’ohn nods. Bruce strides away, stifling a yawn. He only takes the suit off once he’s safely in his own bedroom. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

Bruce wakes at eleven later that same day. He scrubs his eyes, and turns over with a groan. Bruce would _love_ to sleep more, but it would be inadvisable to— J’ohn’s still in the cave, and if he wants to call a league meeting, he needs to contact the others sooner rather than later. Bruce pads into the bathroom and runs the shower until it's blisteringly hot. 

After his shower, Bruce feels a lot more human, though he’s still foggy— long, intensive missions tend to have that effect on him, these days. Bruce dresses casually (no doubt Alfred’s already informed the office that he won’t be in today), and heads down to the kitchen. He freezes when he gets there. 

Alfred is putting away dishes, like usual, but _J’ohn_ is also there, perched on a bar stool. He has a nearly-empty plate of food and a mug of coffee. Bruce blinks, and works to control his anger. “Ah, Master Bruce,” Alfred says calmly, “I was unsure of when you would be joining us. I took the liberty of making our _guest_ breakfast.” Though his words are calm, there is steel in Alfred’s eyes— he knows what he’s done. 

Bruce takes one deep breath. _You promised to give him a chance_ , he reminds himself fiercely. But it is difficult to remember that when the Martian is sitting in his house, talking to Alfred, and Bruce hasn’t had time to prepare himself for facing him _unmasked_. He sighs. 

J’ohn has been sitting still through this whole exchange, observing. Bruce sits two seats away from him. He rests one of his hands on the counter, and tries to keep his voice steady. “I see,” he says, “thank you, Alfred.” It comes out strained. Alfred gives him a long look, but the tension is broken after a moment when he hands Bruce his plate, and coffee. 

After another few minutes of silence, Alfred leaves Bruce and J’ohn alone. While they are eating, J’ohn does not ask his name, or attempt to speak to him. Bruce, very grudgingly, appreciates it. After they’re done, Bruce puts his dishes in the sink and stands. J’ohn follows suit. “Come with me,” Bruce says. They head down to the cave. 

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

A few hours later, Bruce has contacted everyone, even Arthur. They agree to meet up at five. He also has Alfred bring the suit back down, and Bruce puts it away properly. “Does everyone have multiple identities?” J’ohn asks, behind him. Bruce jolts, and then spins around, frowning. 

“More or less…” Bruce replies, not wanting anything to accidentally slip out. J’ohn nods. “We can figure out legal documents for you, if need be,” Bruce says, after another moment. J’ohn looks thoughtful. 

“Perhaps that would be best,” he agrees. Bruce shrugs. It all depends, of course, on what the _others_ think. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

Clark and Diana are the first to arrive. They are followed by Victor, Barry, and then Arthur. Alfred’s prepared a full meal for them, despite Bruce’s protests that he doesn’t have to feed the whole damn league (plus J’ohn). But Alfred is Alfred, and does what he wants. By five, there’s an entire meal waiting in the cave, on Bruce’s cleared-off worktable. It is quite strange, because he’s never eaten down here with anyone else— not even when his boys still lived with him (Bruce had a _reason_ to eat upstairs, then). 

“Bruce! I’m stealing Alfred, just so you know,” Barry calls; he’s already run past everyone to stand by the food-laden table. He’s either ignoring the Martian or hasn’t noticed him yet. Bruce rolls his eyes as the rest of the team look between him and J’ohn (they _have_ noticed the green stranger in the room). Clark and Diana look especially shocked. 

“It’s fine,” Bruce says lowly, “Alfred brought J’ohn upstairs for breakfast already.” 

“Took the choice out of your hands, huh?” Arthur says mirthfully. Bruce scowls. Arthur smirks, and wanders over to the table. Victor gives him a mysterious look and follows. Bruce, Clark, Diana, and J’ohn do too. It’s only then that Barry notices their guest. He flushes bright red and apologizes so quickly that Bruce doesn’t catch a word of it. 

He only shuts up when Bruce finally growls, “It’s _fine_ , Flash.” After this, the team serve themselves and eat. Alfred, per usual, has disappeared somewhere— he treats league meetings like official functions and Alfred’s policy for galas is that the help should be seen, not heard. Apparently, this includes himself. Bruce doesn’t know how he feels about this. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

“Is everyone ready to start the meeting?” Clark asks. 

Bruce nearly rolls his eyes— though he has… _a soft spot_ for Superman, he is a bit of a _boy scout_. There is general agreement, and so the dirty dishes are stacked on the floor. Bruce’s jaw twitches at the _mess_ taking over his cave. Yes, _after_ this Martian business is solved, he will really have to work on funding the construction of a headquarters. 

“As you may notice,” Bruce says dryly, “we have an extra person with us tonight. This is J’ohn J’onzz, the Martian who contacted Superman. Some of us feel that he should be inducted into the league, but as we have not discussed this as an entire group, I wanted to use this as our opportunity to do so. The paperwork for new member induction has not been looked over yet, so we should do that as well.” There is a lull, as people look at J’ohn. 

Barry is the one to break the silence. “Mars? That’s so cool,” he says. 

“Hey!” Clark objects. Barry’s eyes go wide. Bruce snorts. Diana shakes her head. 

Bruce clears his throat before this can get _more_ out of hand. “I hope that you all have questions for J’ohn,” he says flatly. The room’s atmosphere grows colder. Arthur kicks back in his chair, resting his boots on the table. Bruce grits his teeth, but tries not to show Aquaman how much this **annoys** him. 

“I’ve got a question,” Arthur says. “What does he do, and why the hell is he here?” Clark tenses minutely, and Bruce frowns. All eyes shift to J’ohn. 

“I am the last of my kind— there was nothing left for me on Mars,” he says softly. “So I came to Earth. _My abilities include telepathy_ , shapeshifting, and strength.” Arthur looks impassive, at J’ohn’s mental communication, Victor blinks, and Barry jumps. 

“How long have you been on Earth?” Victor asks. J’ohn looks contemplative. 

“I am… not entirely aware of the duration, given the unfortunate events after my arrival. I estimate that it has been at least two Earth months,” J’ohn replies. Bruce feels a pang of _sympathy_ go through him. He can imagine the things that the military scientists did to J’ohn, because not that long ago, Bruce had been willing to do the same to _Superman_. There’s another lull in the conversation. 

Then Barry blurts, “What do you plan to do on Earth, if you stay?” Bruce tenses. This is a _good_ question. J’ohn blinks, and is silent for a moment. 

“I… had no plans originally. However, I think I would like to join you. The league,” he says. “I… sense that I am among kindred spirits here, and this makes me believe that Earth could be _home_ , eventually.” Clark smiles, and so does Barry. Victor’s neutral expression is slightly less detached and even Arthur looks sympathetic. Bruce clears his throat and stands. 

After a minute of silence, he says, “Now that everyone has had the opportunity to ask questions, I suggest we break.” Bruce passes out six flash drives from the belt. “There’s a copy of the document on these. Please read it carefully and think of changes you would like made. If there are no major concerns, and if it works with everyone’s schedule, we can reconvene next week.” No one objects. 

Clark stands. “Thank you, Batman,” he says. “I motion to dismiss the meeting.” Again, no one objects, so they disperse. Clark, Diana, and J’ohn help Bruce clean. Then Clark and Diana leave. 

Bruce sighs. _If he makes J’ohn stay in the cave again, Alfred may have his head_. “You can take a guest room if you want, J’ohn,” he says. 

The Martian blinks. “If it is not too much trouble,” he replies. 

Bruce shrugs. “I have the space. It’s just me, and sometimes Alfred. He can show you where everything is.” They leave to hunt for Bruce’s elusive butler. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

A week has passed, and the league is reassembled in the cave. Bruce is still not entirely comfortable around J’ohn (and probably won’t be for a while) but he has come to… appreciate the Martian’s quiet, serious nature. Also, his stories about Mars and its technology _are_ rather fascinating to both Alfred and Bruce. If J’ohn is voted into the league, he can see the Martian joining Batman as a (much-needed) counterbalance to the league’s more irrational and less-focused members. But currently, Bruce is feeling annoyed. He hasn’t gone out on patrol since the rescue mission, so he’d like to wrap tonight’s meeting up quickly. 

Flash is inhibiting this by distracting the league (and J’ohn). “That’s so cool!” he says to the Martian, “read something else from my mind.” Victor and Arthur are listening with amusement, and Clark and Diana tolerantly. Bruce grits his teeth, wishing that Barry would stop looking _so impressed_. They have things to discuss, after all. 

“Tell me something they _don’t_ already know,” he mutters sarcastically. J’ohn blinks. He and Flash look at Bruce— he must’ve said that louder than intended. J’ohn’s eyes go slightly orange, and Bruce is _unnerved_ , though he does his best not to show it. He will (almost certainly) be working with him soon enough. 

“Very well,” J’ohn says, in that smooth, deep, spine-tingling tone of his. 

Then Bruce experiences the hair-raising feeling of _someone else being in his head_. This is different than J’ohn just **seeing** things. Bruce opens his mouth to explain that he wasn’t _serious_ , but J’ohn’s eyes have already returned to normal. The Martian says calmly, “You have romantic feelings for Clark Kent.” 

Bruce blinks, feeling as if his blood has turned to ice. The background chatter has dropped off and the room is absolutely _silent_. Bruce’s mind whirs. He can feel _everyone’s_ ( **Clark’s** ) eyes on him. Flash blinks, opens his mouth, and shuts it. Diana's face is grim. 

“Excuse me,” he says calmly, standing. Bruce feels his heart in his throat. He walks away slowly, feeling like his body’s turned to wood. Bruce recognizes that it might be _shock_. Inside it’s revolution. 

Behind him, J’ohn asks softly, “I do not understand— did I upset him?” 

He also hears Clark stand, and say, “Sorry, I— let me go after him.” 

Somebody— Diana, he recognizes distantly— stops him. She murmurs, “Let him go, Clark. Now is not the time.” Clark sighs, but does not chase after him. Bruce speeds up his retreat anyway. He just wants to be **alone**. Alone and away from the league, from Clark, from the _humiliating ache_ he feels in his chest. 

As he moves robotically up the stairs, Bruce quietly mourns. Batman cannot continue to be a member of the league now. There is no possible way anyone will take him seriously. _Diana will **have** to assume leadership_, Bruce thinks hysterically, _because Clark will **never** want to speak to him again_. He swallows. Without his permission, Bruce’s breathing has grown rapid and his eyes damp. He growls, and tries to calm himself down. 

It doesn’t work— in fact, Bruce actually feels his control slip further. _Clark **was never** supposed to know_, he thinks miserably, _never_. That way he’d be safe from Bruce, and Bruce would be protected from his (inevitable) rejection. But now he **knows**. Bruce sighs breathily, feeling ready to shatter apart. _What a nightmare_ , he thinks mournfully, _an absolute **disaster**_. 

Clark was never supposed to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So J'ohn may seem a little ooc here to some, but c'mon! He's **barely** been on Earth for 2 months; he's allowed to make mistakes. 
> 
> He'd NEVER do something like this on purpose, I know that, so don't @ me.


	9. Rule IX: The Next Step Forward is Self-Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce continues to isolate himself (i.e. hide) from the league. Of course, some of his co-workers (friends) have things to say about this behavior. This includes Diana, Barry, Alfred, and... _someone else_. 
> 
> Or, confrontations are needed, and Bruce _has them_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Homemade lemonade with honey tastes just as good as old-fashioned homemade lemonade”  
> — _Homemade Lemonade_ , Tip Four.

“The Bat is Back— Experts Discuss Newest Surge of Activity” reads _The Gotham Times_ headline. Bruce frowns, and unfolds the paper. It’s 2 p.m., and he’s sitting in his office at W.E. It is a rare sunny day in Gotham and the afternoon light is streaming in through the wall-to-wall windows behind Bruce’s shoulders. It hits the top of his (empty) desk. 

For once, Lucius has **nothing** for him to do— he says that Bruce has been almost _too_ productive, if anything (he gives Bruce a concerned look as he says this). As he reads the article, Bruce takes a sip from his (third) cup of coffee, and yawns. _Lucius may be right_ , Bruce thinks wryly, because he _has_ been extraordinarily productive, these past two weeks. Funny, what a little _mortification_ and ego-destruction can do for a person’s productivity. 

Of course, it isn’t just in his _day job_ that Bruce has been especially productive— _The Gotham Times_ is right; Batman has been much more publicly active in recent weeks than he has been in _years_. And there hasn’t been a single branding, broken limb, or even heavily-bruised criminal in all his (increased) activity. _Superman would be proud_ , Bruce thinks, before he can stop himself. The edges of the newspaper Bruce is trying to focus on crumple. A sharp pang of bitterness and self-resentment roil Bruce's stomach and send tension through his jaw. 

Since that **disastrous** league meeting, Bruce has not talked to anyone from the league (J’ohn is staying with Barry currently, he knows). Instead, he’s thrown himself back into Gotham; if he’s going to cut off all contact with the others, Batman had best have a damn good excuse to, and Gotham will _always_ provide it. Bruce’s furious and aggressive productivity also serves as a distraction from his **loneliness** — Bruce has grown used to having _life_ in the cave again, because of the league’s presence. He had forgotten what that was like, after so many years of stagnation, of it being just Alfred and himself. But that is gone now. Because he couldn’t keep his damn _feelings_ locked up. 

Bruce doesn’t blame J’ohn. After all, how could he expect an alien who’s been on Earth for (around) _two months_ to understand the subtleties of human communication? The answer is: **he can’t**. So no, Bruce doesn’t blame J’ohn for any of this; knowing himself, Bruce thinks that all of this— his weakness and emotional failings— would have come to light eventually, one way or another. _‘Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak’_ , Bruce thinks grimly. And although he’s not really waging a war against anyone, controlling his own impulses, his own emotions, has always _felt_ like a battle to Bruce; Sun Tzu’s words from _The Art of War_ feel applicable. 

Yet, somehow, _somehow_ , Bruce has failed in appearing strong, in controlling his _utter weakness_ just when it is most important. Batman, the supposed-master of strategy, outwitted by _emotion_. Bruce, who’s successfully lived a double-life for more than twenty years, revealed. Brucie, who manipulates people’s hearts like he’s a cardiologist, heart-broken and hurt. He has let down the league, who have come to appreciate Batman in some capacity (as a reassuring, steady voice barking orders in their comms., if nothing else). He has let down Diana, his friend, by leaving her to deal with the aftermath of his mess. He has let down Clark, by placing unreasonable expectations on him, by burdening him with unwanted (and most definitely unappreciated) affection. Somehow, Bruce has _failed_ catastrophically. And, like most catastrophes, it is only inevitable in retrospect; Bruce _could have_ prevented all this, but he **didn’t**. 

So now, he is paying the price for his love. _Fool_. 

****

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It has been two weeks and two days since Bruce’s feelings for Clark were revealed to the entire league. He’s sitting at home in his study, editing some W.E. legal paperwork and updating case files. Bruce yawns— it’s also been two weeks and two days since he’s gotten any _real_ sleep. He can’t figure out how to turn his brain _off_ and so has kept busy working so he doesn’t drive himself insane by overthinking. Alfred, who must have been informed of events by Diana (though truthfully, he probably had _some idea_ of what was going on with Bruce beforehand), says that he should just _talk_ to Clark. 

Alfred’s _actual_ words are: “Master Bruce, my boy, stop this _idiocy_ and talk to the man. Mr. Kent is Superman— I hardly think that he will be _cruel_ or uncomprehending of your situation.” But this is not going to happen. _Talking to Clark_ is not something Bruce is willing to do (yet). Eventually he _will_ have to face rejection— but not **now**. 

Bruce is _afraid_. 

He is afraid of marching up to Clark, looking him in the eyes, and having an honest, extended conversation about his— Bruce’s— _feelings_ , knowing that Superman can, and will, read Bruce’s every physical reaction to him _like a fucking book_. It feels _gross_ and **inappropriate** to subject Clark to that. That the thought of _seeing_ Clark again makes Bruce simultaneously flush and feel like _vomiting_ has no bearing in his decision-making process. So Bruce will stall and delay as long as he can. 

But this does not mean that anyone _else_ in Bruce’s life will. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

Diana, of course, is the first to visit. It has been two weeks and five days since _the event_ when she finally (metaphorically) busts down Bruce’s door. He is sitting in the cave, cowl down, re-watching security footage from the docks when he hears footsteps on the cave stairs. As he’s told Alfred (strictly) that no one is to be admitted to the cave, Bruce doesn’t blame himself for his stiff, overly-revealing reaction to Diana’s appearance here. Bruce pauses his work and spins around in the chair, rubbing at his tired (shadowed) eyes. He already has his butler’s name on the tip of his tongue when he drops his hand, blinks, and thinks (stupidly), _that’s not **Alfred**_. 

Bruce stills. His pulse quickens a bit, and he frowns. Diana doesn’t react to his cold (non)welcome, and instead, everything about her presence becomes _more_ open, more understanding. Bruce would yell, scream at her to go away and leave him, but that would be a reaction. Diana _thrives_ on his reactions, because that’s how she knows that whatever she’s said **is working**. 

Diana takes the tense silence and wades through it like water. She ignores the very-clear ‘do not approach’ vibes Bruce knows he’s giving off and comes to stand at his side. This makes it abundantly clear that she does not intend to go anywhere, anytime soon. 

Internally, Bruce groans. He’s going to have to _make her go_ , then. “Diana,” he says coolly. Bruce sucks every ounce of warmth from his gaze, sits as stiffly as possible, and works to appear as disinterested as he can. Diana, of course, is not intimidated; she never has been, not by Bruce. This irritates him, and Bruce tells himself to stay focused. “What do you want?” he asks coldly. Diana looks at him with a type of _understanding_ that makes Bruce’s blood boil and his skin itch and his jaw clench. 

“I just want to talk to you, Bruce. It’s been a while,” she says calmly. _Has it?_ Bruce thinks sarcastically, _I hadn’t noticed_. But he doesn’t say this— that would let Diana know she’s gotten under his skin. And Diana has _always_ done her best work by provoking Bruce, by showing him that— despite all he’s experienced— he’s still _alive_ , still functions (even as broken as he is) like a normal human man. Diana provokes Bruce to show him that she can, that becoming completely detached is **impossible** because the basic nature of life is that it is, in some way, **sensitized** (and Bruce is still _living_ ). Diana works so hard to provoke him to show Bruce that she, and Alfred, and Clark won’t _let him_ calcify— 

Or, more accurately now, _tried_ not to let him. 

So, instead of saying something biting, or sarcastic, or angry or bitter, Bruce shrugs; one thing he’s never been is _apathetic_. “Sure,” he says, standing. “Let me get changed, and we can go upstairs. I’ll have Alfred make us tea.” Diana blinks. _Weren’t expecting that, were you?_ Bruce thinks savagely. His avoidance skills, it seems, are still second-to-none. 

But Diana, though surprised at this new tactic, still does not let it deter her. “That sounds agreeable. I shall await your presence in our usual location,” she says, stepping back. Bruce turns away, and walks to the lockers. 

When he’s sure Diana’s left, he throws a gauntlet down on the ground so hard it bounces. “Goddamnit,” he hisses. Bruce shuts his eyes, takes a few calming breaths, and tells himself: _she will not move you_. Then, when his (mental) armor is in place again, Bruce finishes dressing and strides upstairs. It feels slightly as if he is going into battle. 

In a way, he _is_. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

Bruce sits in the armchair across from Diana with a thump. She must have talked to Alfred already (or maybe they had _conspired_ , and this visit had been **planned** ), because as he sits, Bruce notices that there are already two cups of tea. They come with a plate of fresh biscuits, the kind Alfred _knows_ Bruce likes because he’s only been making them for him for the last _thirty-odd years_. Bruce scowls, but then remembers that he’s trying not to let Diana see him _react_ , and so wipes the expression from his face— not that it works. Diana’s already seen it, and this is reflected in the pleased gleam in her eyes. Internally, Bruce _seethes_. 

“Biscuit?” Diana asks. “They are quite delicious.” 

“Yes,” Bruce says stiffly. Diana holds out the plate and Bruce takes two. _Damn her, and damn Alfred’s baking_. They drink their tea and eat their biscuits in silence for a while. Then, Diana sets down her tea and takes a last bite of a biscuit with an appreciative hum. Bruce sets down his cup (he's eaten both biscuits already), and looks at her. 

“May I say something? Honestly?” Diana requests. Bruce rolls his eyes. _When is Diana **not** honest?_

“I don’t see why not,” he says detachedly. _Don’t let her move you_ , Bruce reminds himself. 

Diana takes a breath— it might actually qualify as a _sigh_. “Don’t talk to Clark,” she says. 

Bruce blinks, and sits back with surprise. “Why?” he asks sharply— and damnit, he’s not supposed to show that Diana’s getting through to him. _Focus_. But Diana pretends like she’s not trying to play him. 

“You are not ready yet, Bruce. Give it time,” she advises. 

Bruce scowls, and is about to open his mouth to say, _‘I’ll do whatever I damned want’_ when he realizes that he’s being _manipulated_. By some rather basic reverse-psychology (the type he’d used on his _boys_ when they’d lived with him), no less. Fucking hell. At this, Diana smiles slightly, and Bruce has to work really, really _hard_ to not just snap, or stride out of the room, or glare. Instead, he picks up his cup, and takes another sip of tea. 

“Well I wasn’t planning on it anyhow. But I’m glad you agree,” Bruce says smoothly. Diana frowns and Bruce feels a vicious pleasure, that he’s derailed her intervention (even if it’s only in a small, unimportant way). He smirks, when Diana’s not looking. There is (at last) silence between them. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last, as Diana is quite _sharp_. She recovers her mental footing quickly. 

Diana looks up grimly, with fierce determination in her eyes. “I should not have thought that that would work,” she acknowledges, “it was foolish of me.” 

Bruce snorts. “Yes, it was,” he says (ignoring the fact that it almost _did_ ). Diana sighs again. But she’s still looking thoughtfully at him, with that damnable _understanding_ expression on her face. Bruce frowns. 

“Bruce,” she says finally, sounding quite serious. Bruce swallows, abruptly feeling nervous. He tries to prepare his mental shields for what Diana will say next. “Trust me in this, at least: I have lived _a long time_ , and I can attest that **nothing** is ever solved by hiding— even in a wooden horse. You _cannot_ avoid Clark forever— and if you do not go to speak to him, Clark will, sooner or later, come and speak _to you_.” Diana stands, draining the last of her tea. She picks up her dishes. “So find him, and talk to him. That is my advice. Thank Alfred for the tea and refreshments, if you would.” With this, Diana leaves Bruce (who is still speechless). 

Later, after she’s long-gone, Bruce thinks, _damnit, she **got to** me_. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

The next person to ~~visit~~ harass him is _Barry_ , of all people. 

Bruce comes home from the office one day and there he is, making small-talk with Alfred. Bruce is a quiet person, and neither Alfred nor Barry have heard his arrival. So for a minute, he contemplates just slinking back into the garage and driving away. But that would only delay the inevitable. _Damn Diana_ , he thinks irritably— this _must_ be part of her plan. Bruce grits his teeth, and says stiffly, “Hello, Barry.” 

Barry jumps, and spins around faster than the human eye can see. He looks _incredibly_ nervous, but for once, Bruce does nothing to try to alleviate it. “Hi, Bruce,” he says, regaining some of his bravery, “Alfred and I were just talking. How have you been?” 

Bruce rolls his eyes and turns away. “Fine. If we’re going to have this conversation, I’d rather do it somewhere else.” He walks away. 

From right behind him, Bruce hears Barry say, shakily, “Oh. Okay.” He imagines his confused face. Barry is _not_ subtle. _At least this will be easier than his conversation with Diana_ , Bruce thinks. He opens the door to his study, walks over to the desk, and sits. Bruce gestures to the seat in front of it. Barry swallows. But he shuts the study door behind him and sits anyway. This annoys Bruce. 

“Get it over with,” he says, “I have things to do. And Diana’s already talked to me.” 

Barry swallows again. “I know,” he says. “But she thought I should try.” Bruce blinks and is, despite himself, curious. _How could Barry persuade him when Diana could not?_

“I’m listening,” Bruce says impatiently. 

Barry blinks. “So it’s _true_?” he asks, sounding a little surprised. Bruce rolls his eyes and doesn’t know whether to be more amused or **hurt** — _is it so ridiculous, that he **likes** Clark? He is still a feeling, thinking human being, despite all pretenses otherwise_. And aha. **That** must be why Diana thinks Barry might succeed where she hasn’t— he has a very different perspective on things than either Bruce or Diana do. Furthermore, Barry’s youth makes him speak more bluntly than either of them. He also thinks differently. 

Slightly shaken, but more determined, Bruce just shrugs. “Yes,” he says. 

“Okay,” Barry replies. And that’s all he says for a minute. Bruce sits silently, waiting. Barry lets him. Then Flash refocuses. He stares Bruce straight in the eyes and asks, “What’re you going to _do_ about it?” 

Bruce opens his mouth to speak, but shuts it when he realizes that he _doesn’t know_ what to say. For once, he doesn’t _have_ a plan. He can imagine what Barry’s response would be, if he said that, or if he said: ‘Avoid him forever. Never speak to Superman or Clark again.’ If he said _that_ , Barry would reply innocently, genuinely wanting to know _why_ Bruce would do something like that: ‘Isn’t that kinda ridiculous though, Bruce?’ So instead, Bruce stays silent. Barry is still _looking_ at him, waiting. But not in a demanding way, as if **that** makes any sense. 

“I don’t know,” Bruce says, finally. 

Barry nods. “I thought so,” he replies. But it isn’t _judgmental_ , not even close to it. Bruce blinks. Barry leans forward, looking sincere and helpful. “I feel like that a lot— not about _liking_ Clark though, of coursenot,I don’tlikehim—” Bruce snorts. _That’s more like Barry_. 

“Barry,” he interrupts, “I _know_. Go on.” Barry smiles, looking relieved. 

“Right,” he says. He takes a breath and sits back in his chair. “I over-think things too, was my point there. So sometimes, like a certain Bat once taught me: just _do_.” And then, Barry’s voice drops into a comically poor imitation of Bruce’s own modulated Bat-voice, “Talk once. Talk to Clark once, about what’s going on.” 

Bruce rolls his eyes indulgently and snorts. “I don’t sound anything like that,” he says. Barry smiles, shrugging. Bruce sighs. “But... I will _consider_ your advice. So tell Diana that she doesn’t have to send anyone else, please.” Barry beams for a second, before remembering who he’s talking to, and why. He nods, and stands hurriedly— Barry recognizes that his job here is done. 

As he’s reached the door, Bruce calls, “Barry.” The younger man turns around, curious expression on his face. “Thank you,” Bruce says. Barry smiles, and nods once more before slipping from the room. 

When he’s gone, Bruce leans his elbows on the desk and steeples his hands. He rests his chin on them and stares thoughtfully at the door. _Barry_ , he thinks reluctantly, _might have a **point**. Which is why Diana sent him_. “Damnit,” Bruce growls. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

Bruce is holed up in his office at W.E. again, feeling miserable. He’s trying to work, after everything that’s happened— Diana’s _visit_ , Barry’s no-nonsense assault on Bruce’s pretenses— though it’s proving impossible. Barry’s visit was… more effective than Bruce would like to admit, and he’s been _thinking_ ever since. But a final decision, one way or another, has proven elusive as of late— sleep has been fleeting too, even after almost a month. Bruce blinks tiredly down at the stack of W.E. paperwork he’s been filling out. _Perhaps it’s time for a break_ , he thinks, _Alfred would be happy about that_. 

Since Barry, no one else has come to ~~see~~ **disturb** Bruce. Either that means that Diana thinks he’ll cave soon or no one else is willing (or _cares enough_ ) to try. Bruce sighs, feeling even more exhausted than he did a second ago. He thinks about Barry’s advice: _“Talk to Clark once, about what’s going on”_ and about Diana’s warning: _“if you do not go to speak to him, Clark will, sooner or later, come and speak **to you** ”_. 

Both of these things, Bruce knows, are true. Clark won’t just let him _wallow_ forever— he’s a man of action and **will** seek Bruce out if he doesn’t find him first. Also, someday, somehow, Batman will have to work with Superman again. Things will be _more than awkward_ if Bruce and he don’t have a heart-to-heart, as much as that idea nauseates Bruce. He sighs, and tries to refocus on the work in front of him. Work, after all, doesn’t care if Bruce is suffering from relationship drama. Work doesn’t care if _Batman_ likes **Superman** but is too chicken to talk to him. 

It’s really a shame that work isn’t _sentient_ — Bruce thinks he’d get along quite well with it. 

****

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It has now been a month and four days since the league's been in the Batcave. A month and four days since Bruce has seen Superman, and he _still_ hasn’t acted. _Fucking coward_ , he tells himself as he slinks away from Alfred’s pointed mutterings (he’s started to leave newspaper clippings of Superman’s good deeds around the house, and he tunes the tv to Metropolis news stations when Bruce isn’t paying attention). But, Bruce is nothing if not stubborn ( _especially_ in regard to his own happiness and health) and so ignores his butler’s interference. 

Bruce has also started growing used to not sleeping well— he’s always been good at makeup anyway, and so it becomes routine to slather on a little more concealer over his eye bags than normal. But it’s not really his _eyes_ or lack of sleep that are the problem. No, the _real problem_ is that he hasn’t talked to Clark yet… and Clark hasn’t yet attempted to talk to him, either. 

The thing is, Bruce is not a hopeful person. He is also a terribly, horribly, socially-inept man (or, as Alfred says, “Frankly, Sir, sometimes I fear you have the social skills of a _biscuit_.”) So, subconsciously at least, he’s been kind of, sort-of _waiting_ for Clark to come to him, for Superman to make the first move here. Because Bruce is a coward, and unfortunately, overly pain-sensitive (ironic, for a violent, seemingly-fearless man like Batman). Bruce doesn’t _want_ to have his heart **broken** , which he knows it will be, after he talks to Clark. There is no way Clark wants him, after all. So it has been a month and four days… 

And Clark still hasn’t talked to him. Bruce sighs, and paces the floor of his study. Eventually, though, he manages to calm down (basically this means to _stop thinking_ for a bit) and returns to his desk chair with a reluctant grumble; despite being so productive, Bruce still **hates** paperwork. 

After a bit, Alfred knocks on his door and brings him lunch, a fresh pot of coffee (he has long given up on moderating Bruce’s caffeine-intake), and… a copy of _The Daily Planet_. Bruce groans internally. “Thanks, Al,” he says patiently. Alfred is mute, and a worried frown crosses his features. ‘Ever heard of ‘love sickness?’’ Bruce considers asking. But he doesn’t. So, after a moment of tense silence, Alfred must conclude that there is nothing more he can do for Bruce right now. He leaves. 

Bruce eats his sandwich and flips through the paper as he does. Irritatingly, there is a story about Superman on page two. Bruce crumples the paper and throws it at the trashcan. He misses, and the paper lands just in front of it— this feels like it symbolizes his current situation quite nicely. Bruce sighs, and returns to his lunch. 

Sometime later— how much Bruce doesn’t know, as he’s been absorbed in work— there is a firm knock on his door. Distractedly, Bruce mutters, “Come in,” assuming that it is Alfred swinging by to pick up his dishes or to offer him some more coffee (the pot he’d brought Bruce with his lunch is empty). Bruce rests his pen against his chin, and slumps back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, when he gets the first clue that it might not be Alfred who’s come to disturb him. 

Bruce listens to the un-Alfred-like footsteps, and frowns. But he’s just reached an important paragraph in this (latest) legal document he’s reading, so Bruce runs a hand through his hair, brows furrowing in concentration, and ignores it. He and Alfred have grown _very_ used to each other, and theirs is often a routine of familiar silences, after thirty-something years. 

But the thing is, once the other person enters the room, there’s none of the regular, Alfred-like sounds of bustling around, gathering things, or even any _remarks_ made about Bruce’s (poor) posture. Bruce frowns. He’s prepared to tell this _interloper_ — whoever they are— to state their business and get out. Bruce looks up. 

He is unprepared to see _Clark_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Here's a new chapter ;).
> 
> The quote Bruce thinks about is from _The Art of War_ , by Sun Tzu.


	10. Rule X: Establish a New Normal— Let Go of Bad Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark has finally— as predicted by Diana— sought Bruce out. Now he wants to _talk_. They have a **discussion** in which necessary things are said, and understandings reached. A new normal is (possibly) established. 
> 
> Bruce wonders how any of this can be _real_ — but, after all the tension between them, **something** has to give...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Some people prefer overly sweet or slightly bitter lemonade, that’s why it’s best to adjust the water quantity to your preference”  
> — _Homemade Lemonade_ , Tip Five.

Bruce drops his pen. The papers scatter across his desk and the floor with a soft fluttering sound. His mouth is dry, and his hands itch. Bruce swallows. 

He stands so abruptly that he bangs one of his knees against the desk, and stumbles. Bruce winces, and catches himself by placing a hand on the desk. Clark, he sees after a moment, has taken half a step forward with an arm raised, ready to help. When he sees that Bruce is watching, Clark drops the arm and resumes his original position. Bruce blinks, then _stares_ at him. Clark blinks, looking a lot calmer than Bruce probably does, and observes back. Above all, it is _quiet_ in the study. 

The quiet lasts for more than a minute (one of the most _unbearable_ of Bruce’s life.) He tries to prevent his physiological reactions from causing more damage, but this proves ~~difficult~~ _impossible_. Bruce attempts to erase Superman’s presence from his mind anyway. Yet he still feels his face flush, his pulse beat violently, and his jaw creak. Like he’s sick ( _or in **love**_ ). No. 

While Bruce has his freak-out, Clark moves _closer_. He’s now standing about a foot away from the far side of Bruce’s desk. Bruce’s heart does the tango in his chest, and he feels like he might **die** of an overdose of Clark, after such a long period of withdrawal. “Bruce,” Clark says, taking one step forward (his knees are _touching_ the front of Bruce’s desk now), “ _I need to know_.” 

From somewhere deep inside, Bruce summons his voice. “Need to know _what_ , Clark?” he asks faintly. 

“Do you… are you **really** _in love_ , with me?” Clark asks. He sounds a bit desperate to learn the answer. 

Bruce’s heart stutters in his chest— a wounded dove. Hasn’t J’ohn already answered that? But Bruce can’t make his mouth speak the truth: I love you, I love you, I love you. _Does Clark really not **know** even after J’ohn’s revelation, or because of his own extraordinary senses? Bruce is **his** , irrevocably_. But Clark is not— _cannot possibly be_ — Bruce's. So he stays silent. Silent long enough that Bruce feels Clark’s tension grow, until it is radiating out of him like the warm anger of a supernova. 

“What’s your _problem_ , Bruce?” Clark asks. He sounds angry. Tension runs through Bruce’s jaw. _If he grinds his teeth anymore, his dentist won’t be happy_. 

“It’s not you, Clark,” he grits out. _They’re **finally** having this conversation_. 

“Oh, _I see_ ,” Clark says sarcastically, “so it’s not _me_ , it’s _you_?” 

_‘Yes!’_ Bruce wants to scream, _'Exactly. I ruin things, Clark, and I very nearly ruined you already. I won’t do it again. It’s **me** , Clark, it’s me. **I’m** the problem. **I hate myself** '_. But he doesn’t say any of these things, because that would be _wrong_. 

Clark laughs. It startles Bruce still, freezes him more securely than any freeze gun or quick-drying cement ever could. Clark's laugh sounds just like _his_. A roiling wave of self-hatred courses through Bruce, burning like _lava_. 

Clark _must_ sense something of this because his features lose some of their bitterness. He cocks his head slightly, looking alarmed and confused; he’s never seen _Batman_ look defeated. Bruce feels alarm bells ring in his head. “ _Bruce_ ,” Clark says softly, “talk to me, _please_.” 

Bruce croaks, “I… I’d love for this. You make me— _I can’t_ , Clark. You’ll _hate me_. I hate—” he cuts himself off with a full-body jerk. _Oh god, he’d nearly **said** it_. Nearly spewed his darkness onto Clark. Like a black hole, greedily absorbing a star’s light. He’s **toxic**. 

Bruce risks a glance up, and immediately regrets it. Clark’s eyes, per usual, are too expressive. Right now they’re wide, and filled with dawning comprehension. Clark says, quietly and slowly, “You don’t like yourself very much, do you, Bruce?” He sounds like he’s just understood _everything_. Bruce’s pulse stutters in his chest— a butterfly on cocaine— and he blinks wide and child-like at Clark. Clark, who has x-ray vision (which he’s not using— he doesn’t _need_ it to crack Bruce open), and whose blue eyes hold nothing but kindness, concern... and something else— _but not pity_. 

No, he looks genuinely _mournful_ , at the thought that anyone would feel that way. That Batman’s worst enemy... 

That Batman’s archnemesis is _not_ the Joker, but **himself**. 

“I…” Bruce stammers, cutting himself off with an embarrassing sound— something between a _gasp_ and a _squeak_. He looks away. 

Because what **is** a person supposed to say, to a question like that? What is **Bruce** supposed to tell Clark? _‘Yes, you’re absolutely right. I am garbage personified, what the muck at the bottom of the Mariana Trench would look like if it had a personality. I am a natural disaster of a human being, and I hate myself?’_ Bruce feels dizzy, for a moment, and so, so _tired_. He’s been fighting this fight for a _long_ time. Far longer than any fight Batman ever fought. Bruce gasps, and realizes: _that’s why he was dizzy, he forgot to **breathe**_. 

Bruce wants to laugh, and cry, at the same time. But he can’t— or, more accurately, _won’t_ , because Clark’s here. Clark is **still** here, so kind and so pure and so nice, and he’s looking at Bruce with concern. Bruce feels overwhelmed, feels his bottom lip trembling. And that’s what this is: overwhelmment, and sadness, and shame, and _relief_. 

No one— not Diana, not Alfred— has ever dared to name (to speak aloud) what Bruce is experiencing. They have not dared to confront him about it. _Yes, Clark. You see, the problem is, **I hate myself**. This makes it rather **difficult** to focus on anything else. Yes, Clark, **this** is what’s stopped me from making any progress in my life, with my other issues_. 

And suddenly, Bruce is heaving in great big gasps and breathing out sobs. But he is _not_ crying, refuses to cross that line— that would be the _definition_ of a break down, and he hasn’t had one since he was nine and briefly forgot that it was Alfred ( **not** his mother) who would sign his permission slip for the Spring Dance (never again his mother, **or** his father). 

“Hey, Bruce,” Clark murmurs, stepping forward to engulf him in a warm hug. Bruce just shakes, falling apart in his arms. And damnit— _now_ he’s crying. 

****

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Later— and it feels like it’s been _years_ — Bruce gulps his way back into a semblance of normalcy. His face feels damp and sticky. Bruce blinks away the blurriness, the headache, and looks up at Clark... because, although he still has Bruce safely tucked in his arms, he’s also floated up a few inches to match their heights (to make Bruce more comfortable). Somehow, this warms Bruce’s heart more than anything else Superman has done today. 

Clark glances down at him. “Hi,” he says calmly. He does not let go. But Bruce doesn’t feel very inclined to ask him to. 

“Hi,” Bruce replies shyly. He ducks his head. 

Clark, very gently (like he’s holding a butterfly) tucks a hand under Bruce’s chin and lifts his head so their gazes meet. “I want to see your eyes, Bruce. It’s easier to tell what you're thinking that way,” he says. Bruce blinks, suddenly wanting to lower his gaze. _He didn’t know that that was one of his tells— it’s a good thing that Batman has the cowl_. But Bruce _can’t_ , because that would mean disappointing Clark. “What’s going on in there?” Clark presses. 

And Bruce feels tired again. It’s not a soul-crushing tiredness but, for once, a more mundane one (it’s almost _nice_ ). So he says, only feeling a little embarrassed at how his voice cracks, “I’m _tired_ , Clark.” 

Clark nods seriously. “Rest,” he says matter-of-factly. Bruce opens his mouth to object but Clark interrupts: “I’ll be here when you wake up.” He meets Bruce’s doubtful gaze and holds it. Bruce decides that this is promise enough, and so trudges over to his (comfortable) study couch. He collapses on it with a sigh. Then Clark disappears for a moment. Bruce feels a brief surge of panic. _He’s gone, Bruce is alone. Or he’s finally cracked, and it was all an extended (glorious) hallucination_. Bruce feels his pulse race. 

“Here,” Clark says soothingly, “I got a pillow and a blanket from your room, so you’d be comfortable. Hope you don't mind.” 

Bruce swallows his racing heart. _How could he mind something like that? How could he mind **Clark**?_ “N-no. I don’t mind,” he replies. Bruce gladly takes the pillow and shoves it under him. He lets Clark throw the blanket over him. Bruce settles down, adjusting. His eyes feel like impossible weights. Clark is hovering at his side, just out of view. For once, Bruce doesn’t mind. He blinks in the golden afternoon light, and closes his eyes to sleep. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

When Bruce wakes, he’s not sure what time it is— it _feels_ a lot later, though. He glances out the window, and sees that the sun is just setting. Bruce sits up and is pleasantly surprised that his back’s not sore (though the couch is comfortable, it is not the same as Bruce’s bed). Clark, as promised, is still **here**. He’s sitting in Bruce’s second office chair, with the (now un-crumpled) copy of _The Daily Planet_ in front of him. Bruce flushes. 

Clark’s eyes flicker over the bottom of the page and then he shuts the paper and folds it. He looks up, puzzled amusement in his gaze. “Is there a reason this was crumpled up?” he asks. 

Bruce frowns. “It’s stupid,” he says. Clark arches an eyebrow, looking no less interested than before. Bruce sighs. “Alfred started bringing me Metropolis-located newspapers and tuned the tv to Metropolis news channels— he was _unhappy_ with some of my decisions.” Bruce does _not_ say ‘regarding you,’ but he imagines Clark hears it anyway. He runs a hand through his mussed-up hair, in an attempt to smooth it down. 

Clark frowns at the paper, and sets it on the desk. He stands. Bruce does too. _Oh god, it’s happening_. But Clark doesn’t approach him. Instead, he drags the other chair from behind Bruce’s desk and sets it a few feet away from the first one, which he sits in. Clark motions to the other chair with a sweep of his arm and Bruce sits robotically. 

“We need to talk,” Clark says calmly. One slightly frantic laugh escapes Bruce’s lips. He swallows, then takes a deep, centering breath. Clark eyes him, looking a tiny bit perturbed. 

Bruce sighs. “Yes, I suppose we do,” he replies. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

“Let me start over,” Clark says. His posture reads ‘relaxed,’ and Bruce idly wonders if he's really relaxed or if this is a show for Bruce, to put _him_ at ease. “I shouldn’t have started out the way I did before… that was dumb.” Bruce smiles faintly, though his heart feels like it’s been squeezed through a wringer. _Yes, it was_ , he thinks. Even if he knows nothing else about Bruce, Clark _should know_ that he doesn’t do well with verbal confrontation— especially about his emotions. 

Clark fidgets in his seat and Bruce feels nervous again— he’s not used to seeing this more average, indecisive part of Clark. It feels strange and abnormal. Clark, probably keenly attuned to how nervous Bruce is, stills. He doesn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed and so does nothing. “Well, get it over with,” Bruce says bluntly. He leans forward slightly and rests his elbows on his legs, hands clasped— braced for Clark’s (inevitable) words. 

But Clark stays silent. He stays silent so long that Bruce sucks a breath in and looks up at him. Clark is sitting still in his chair, looking pensive. Bruce forces himself to _breathe_. Finally, as if Bruce’s gaze is some sort of cue, Clark sighs. He runs a hand through his hair, which displaces a few strands. This does nothing for Bruce’s nerves. “So… you _like_ me?” he asks finally. 

This is the kind of question that Bruce has been **dreading** , but the way Clark delivers it— as if they’re in grade school, and he and Bruce have been passing _notes_ — makes Bruce laugh. Clark begins to get a vaguely offended, somewhat hurt look on his face, so Bruce forces himself to stop. “Sorry,” he says, “it’s just— yes, Clark. I _like like_ you.” This time, Clark is the one to snort. He also rolls his eyes. 

“Okay,” he says. And Clark looks… _relieved_. Bruce blinks, feeling as if the _whole universe_ has been upturned. He frowns, confused, because this— this _can’t_ be real. Clark’s not **supposed** to _like Bruce back_. Every mental calculation Bruce has run says it’s not _possible_ for him to. So why does Clark look like he’s just won the lottery? 

“‘Okay’?” Bruce repeats, still stunned. Clark nods. 

Then he stands, and Bruce does too. He feels as if his heart might go into _orbit_. Clark starts to walk forward slowly, and Bruce’s heart flutters faster. At this, Clark smiles kindly— Bruce absently remembers that the other man can _hear_ his heartbeat. He swallows. Clark is _still_ approaching him. Bruce blinks. 

Clark stops just in front of him, leaving no space between them. Bruce wants to _run_ , but he’s too exhausted to— Clark would track him down, anyway— and Bruce? Bruce needs to know if this is **real**. If it is actually possible for him to _have **Clark**_. 

“ _Bruce_ ,” Clark says, sounding inordinately fond. Bruce tries to respond, to say _something_ , but his voice catches in his throat and his pulse _races_. His breath trembles. Bruce can’t **move**. 

Ever so slowly, Clark brings a hand up to cup Bruce’s cheek. He runs a thumb over Bruce’s face. Bruce is frozen— he hasn’t moved a muscle the entire time (he feels dizzy, and realizes he’s forgotten to breathe yet again). He just stares, wide-eyed, at Clark. 

Clark takes another half-step forward so that their bodies are pressed flush together. Bruce feels himself trembling. Clark takes his hand— the one that’s still on Bruce’s face— and uses it to gently tip Bruce’s chin down so that their lips are more closely aligned. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he murmurs. 

Bruce feels as if he’s _dying_ , and it’s almost like he’ll lift off into space. _Finally, finally, finally_ , he thinks, disoriented. It feels like sparks have set off, like there’s fireworks in his brain, champagne in his chest. Bruce closes his eyes. _Finally, finally, **finally**_ , he thinks again. Bruce can feel Clark dip him forward slightly, and then, _then_ there is the hot, warm, smooth, and inviting pressure of Clark’s mouth over his. Bruce feels his racing pulse even out (slightly) and he winds a hand through Clark’s shirt, his hair, and he _kisses back_ like his life depends on it. 

_Ah, so this is **love**. _

_****_

_**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-** _

__

__

More than a week has passed since Bruce and Clark’s… _talk_ , and Clark has not left Bruce’s side the entire time— Clark Kent (as far as the wider world knows) is dead, and so he has nowhere to be. Besides, Bruce has actually been productive at W.E. for once, and he thinks he deserves a bit of a _break_ — no one’s going to tell **Bruce Wayne** whether or not he can skip work at _his_ company to spend the day in bed with his new boyfriend, anyway. 

So Bruce calls Lucius, and tells him he’s taking an impromptu vacation. “I’m glad to hear it, Bruce,” Lucius says, sounding genuinely _relieved_ , “I’d have hated to tell Alfred that you died of overwork— under my watch, no less. Have fun.” Bruce thanks him, and hangs up. _Speaking of Alfred_ , he thinks, _there’s one more person I need to talk to…_

Alfred (wisely) has made himself scarce recently— but Bruce thinks he should at least tell him _something_ of what’s going on. Diana doesn’t know yet, and so his butler has no other source of information apart from Bruce himself (and Clark’s _continual presence_ at the lake house) to go on. So, reluctantly, Bruce leaves Clark behind for a bit and goes to track down his butler. 

He finds him in the garage, polishing the Porsche— Bruce recognizes it as the one he drove to Metropolis, what feels like years ago. “I talked to Clark,” he blurts. 

Alfred pauses for a second, then continues his work. Bruce waits out his silence, leaning against the doorway nervously. _He’s never really brought **anyone** home to meet Alfred before_. Finally, Alfred sets down the sponge, and stands slowly. He turns and looks keenly at Bruce. “I was aware of that, Sir… I take it that your talk went well?” 

Bruce does his best to keep a straight face and not blush. _God, this is worse than the time he drove Bruce and his date to Winter Formal during Bruce's sophomore year of high school_. Bruce nods. Then he swallows, and recovers his voice. “Yes, Al. It went well,” he says, “you… might be seeing more of Clark around the house now.” Alfred raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Bruce waits. 

Alfred picks up his supplies and places them back in the cabinet. As he does so, he says quietly, “It is a miracle that your pigheadedness did not drive him away, Master Bruce. But I am… _happy_ for you two.” Alfred closes the cabinet doors, turns to face Bruce, and approaches him. Bruce smiles as Alfred offers him a rare, brief hug. “I believe I shall make myself scarce for a while. Ring if you need my services,” he says. 

Bruce snorts, feeling his face flush. He lets go. “I… will do that,” he stammers. Alfred nods, and is off. Bruce watches him leave, feeling as if another heavy weight has left his chest. _Alfred approves_. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

Bruce is warm, and for once, feels fully rested. But there’s something _slightly different_ about his surroundings now… He wakes up, and— as is usual for just-after waking— feels pretty foggy. So it takes him a minute to process what’s changed. Bruce opens his eyes and lifts his head. 

The reason something feels _different_ is that he’s sprawled across Clark’s bare chest. Bruce’s head had been resting over Clark’s heart, and one of his hands is splayed over Clark’s left wrist. _Oh_. Either he moved sometime during the night, or Clark _moved him_. Bruce blinks. Clark’s arm— which had been loosely wrapped around him— is abruptly gone. Bruce sits up. 

“Good morning,” Clark says cheerfully. Bruce smiles softly, and allows himself to just _look_ at Clark for a minute— because he _can_ now. 

“Morning,” Bruce says, standing. 

Clark raises a brow. “Got something planned for the day?” he asks curiously— Bruce isn’t usually a morning person (as Clark has _already_ learned). 

Bruce sucks in a breath and nods. “I was thinking… today’s the day we should _tell them_ ,” he says. Clark stretches, then pads over to Bruce. He plants a kiss on Bruce’s cheek. Bruce feels his pulse flutter, and Clark hums contentedly. 

“Well then, I suppose we should get dressed,” Clark says. 

Bruce snorts. “I suppose so.” But the humor is short-lived— he is nervous about telling the league. Bruce reminds himself that since he was able to talk to _Alfred_ alone, then surely he _and_ Clark together can inform the league. However, he still feels nervous. 

Bruce and Clark dress, and Bruce texts Diana as they eat breakfast. Then they go down to the cave to wait 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

As it turns out, there is nothing to worry about. Diana smiles contentedly (as if she’d _known_ all along that this would be the outcome), when they break the news. Arthur rolls his eyes, and mutters, “Get a room already.” But it is a rather half-hearted mutter, so Bruce knows that even if he doesn’t exactly approve, Arthur doesn’t _disapprove_ , either. 

Victor shrugs. “Hey, as long as you two are happy, **I’m** happy,” he says calmly. Clark smiles and Bruce offers him a curt nod. 

Barry blinks, as if seeing Bruce and Clark together is some kind of paranormal event. Or maybe, he’s just not used to seeing Bruce actually look _happy_. But, after another moment, he composes himself, and offers them a smile. “I’m glad you two got things worked out,” he says simply. 

Bruce meets his eyes, and says firmly, “Thank you, Barry.” Flash suddenly looks embarrassed, and he shuffles his feet. 

Barry opens his mouth to reply, but J’ohn is now approaching. So he simply nods, and then steps away. J’ohn comes to a stop in front of them and turns to Bruce. He says, “I must apologize, Batman. I did not—” 

Bruce holds up a hand and cuts him off. “Please, J’ohn,” he says, “there’s no need to apologize, because I’ve already forgiven you. If anything, I should be thanking _you_. How about we just put this behind us?” 

J’ohn smiles. “I would appreciate that. I wish you both the fullest happiness,” he says. Bruce nods. 

“Thank you!” Clark says, smiling. J’ohn offers them one last serene look and then moves away. 

Diana approaches them later, after most of the others have either moved off or departed (this is not an official league meeting, after all). “I am glad that you two finally found each other,” she says. “I think you will be very happy.” She gives Clark a brief hug and squeezes Bruce’s shoulder. 

Then Diana politely excuses herself, and they are alone. But Bruce knows that she and he need to have an in-depth conversation, sometime in the near future— he makes a mental note to invite her over again for tea soon. 

“That went well,” Clark says. He sounds very pleased. 

Bruce smiles. “Yes, it did,” he replies. 

****

**-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-```-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-**

It has been one month since everything in Bruce’s life _changed drastically_ — and most of his days are better now. Clark has been helping him, and so Bruce finds that he doesn’t feel like he _hates_ himself quite as often, nowadays. He's also tried to be _kinder_ to himself, since he finally has a **reason to** , again. And though it is _true_ that he **does** struggle still (and knows that he will continue to), Bruce finds that he’s _happier_ than he has been in a long, long time. 

It has been one month since Bruce and Clark started their relationship, and things are going very well. Although they haven’t officially moved in together (Superman has Metropolis to protect, Batman has Gotham, and Bruce has his identity to guard), Clark spends most nights with Bruce, at the lake house. This is where they are right now, in fact. 

Bruce smiles at Clark over his shoulder. They’re reclining on one of the couches in the living room area. Clark is acting as Bruce’s pillow— he’s lying behind him, with his arms wrapped around Bruce’s waist. Alfred’s working somewhere around the house. It’s quiet, and Bruce _almost_ feels relaxed. Except, there’s _one last, final thing_ that he needs to do. 

There’s one more bridge he’s burned. One more relationship he needs to mend. 

Bruce takes a deep breath in, and picks up the phone. Clark squeezes his hand reassuringly, but stays silent; he’s not here to do the work for Bruce. Clark is just here as his moral support. Bruce scrolls through his contacts, until he reaches the name: _Dick_. He swallows, and takes a second to mentally prepare. Bruce presses the ‘call’ icon. 

The phone starts to ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DOUBLE SURPRISE— HERE IS THE LAST CHAPTER!!! I did have a lot of this chapter pre-written but I was ALSO working on it at 3 a.m. (as one does) because I was inspired™. However, I couldn't justify posting it earlier; that pesky thing called _perfectionism_ (and not wanting my fic to be littered with **stupid** mistakes) stopped me. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, it's been a real blast.
> 
> And now you know how to make lemonade ;).


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